The rock itself was a massive outcropping that rose above the lower city. It could hold a jury of four or five hundred with ease, though the day would bake them all on the white stone. As the sun rose, Xanthippus paced from one edge of the Areopagus to the other, with Epikleos watching him. The magistrate who would preside over the trial had been chosen by lot and was a butcher by trade. He seemed delighted at the appointment and had warmly shaken Xanthippus by the hand at their first meeting. As seemed true of all butchers, the man was well fed and solid, with a crushing grip. Xanthippus did not have to ask to know he was Marathonomachos.
Epikleos watched the first jurors come up the steps, passing through the Scythian guards with solemn stares and then bounding to the top to find a good spot near the front.
‘The loss of life has been admitted,’ Epikleos said quietly. ‘That is hardly a matter of dispute. Your only focus must be to prove he was reckless with those lives, that he should have scouted the island and discovered the ambush – and is therefore responsible, at least in part.’
Xanthippus nodded. He wished the point of accusation was how Miltiades had acted at Marathon. He was more certain of that, though proof was just as elusive. He eyed the jury, seeing serious expressions. They had called Miltiades a hero once, but that was before he had lost so many men and ships.
Xanthippus could feel sweat trickling down from his armpits, cold against his skin though the sun was barely above the eastern horizon. There was no sign yet of the accused. Miltiades had been under guard since his accusation, in preparation for the trial. He had not been allowed to return to his loyal crews or even his house in the city, not while such serious charges hung over him. Instead, he would have languished with his wound in the small prison close by the Scythian barracks. Xanthippus imagined the man was being dressed and bathed at that moment, ready to argue his fate.
‘I have one of his captains as witness,’ he murmured, looking through the written argument he intended to make. There were many words crossed through and he felt sweat prickle on his brow. He was no Themistocles to pour words like honey over a jury until they drowned in them! Nor could he express the truth that lay at the heart of his accusation. Miltiades was a traitor, bought by a Persian king. The rest was merely a chain to bind him.
Miltiades arrived in a bustle of supporters, all glaring at Xanthippus. The man himself struggled visibly with his crutch, his son Cimon at his side to help him. Men well versed in argument walked alongside, holding rolls of papers. They looked calm and well prepared, which of course was for the benefit of jurors still taking their seats. Volunteers over the age of thirty were not always easy to find on a trial day. The pay was less than a working wage, so in more normal times, it tended to be the elderly and the poorest who filled the seats. It was said to be their chief entertainment and the white-hairs were much mocked in plays about the law.
On this day, the interest around Miltiades had persuaded much younger men to volunteer for selection. Some of them were even those who had returned with the fleet, with as much right as anyone to put their names forward. Xanthippus saw a few with bound wounds and swallowed nervously.
‘Do you see the sailors?’ he whispered to Epikleos.
His friend peered at a group still coming up, noting how their gaits differed from men used to solid land.
‘They think this great rock is a deck still,’ he replied. ‘What of it? They have a vote – and more reason than most to be here. Don’t mind them, Xan. They have all seen friends drown because of Miltiades. It does not mean they will vote for him today.’
Xanthippus bit his lip. He watched sweating slaves bring the voting baskets to the top. No one was allowed to influence a jury as they gave their verdicts. There would be no holding up of hands, or standing on one side or the other, not in a trial. Instead, each man was given two bronze rods and a disc with a hole in the centre. The choice of rod was solid or hollow, representing guilty or innocent. No one could see which rod had been chosen when fingers were pressed over the ends. It meant votes could not be influenced or bought, at least with any certainty. In that way, the results of a trial were as clean and true as they could possibly be. Xanthippus eyed the men of the galleys and wondered how they would vote.
Four hundred was the number he and Miltiades had agreed for the jury. It could have been a thousand or as few as a hundred, but the number was a reasonable compromise. The last of them found a spot to sit or stand as the sun rose and the long shadows shrank. The day seemed peaceful at that height above the city, though a dozen trials would be taking place at the same time, with courts all over the heart of Athens. The law would be applied by juries and magistrates with no more expertise than the man accused. There were always some who argued for more expert judges, or juries trained for the task. Just a generation before, trials had been decided by the archons of the Areopagus council. Yet corruption had been rife and the judgments often tainted. Still, Xanthippus had been one of those who argued against putting the lives of men into the hands of the uneducated, the damaged, the spiteful, the poor. Themistocles had spoken in favour, which made a little more sense now that he knew more of his youth. Yet the truth was it worked as well as any other system – and it bound them together as Athenians. Xanthippus could not deny that. It was written in every face before him, in their keen interest and serious expressions. They would decide the fate of Miltiades that very day, in solemn dignity, passing judgement on one of their own.
Xanthippus breathed in relief when he saw the two galley officers arrive to take seats by him. It had been a scramble to find and interview both captain and hoplite, getting the story direct from their lips. It helped that they were both furious with Miltiades. Xanthippus met their gaze as they came and shook his hand, then sat down on wooden chairs facing the jury, ready to be called. Neither had looked away, Xanthippus noted in relief. Miltiades and his people took chairs on the other side of the magistrate, all facing the jury – seated or standing on the bare rock. Xanthippus and Epikleos, as his second, sat looking out across the jurors and the city beyond, lit gold in the morning sun.
The magistrate cleared his throat, then did it again and a third time, as if his nerves had overcome him and he could not begin. Just as Xanthippus considered rising in interruption, the man spoke.
‘On this trial day in the month of Skirophorion, the year of Aristides, I convene this court under the laws of Athens and the wisdom of Athena. Xanthippus of Acamantis tribe and Cholargos deme is the plaintiff and chief accuser of Miltiades, hero of Marathon.’
Xanthippus kept his head down, though he heard Epikleos’ intake of breath at such a cheap attempt to manipulate. It seemed the magistrate was not quite as uninvolved as he had seemed. Luck or the gods played a role in the selections, of course. That too was part of the process of judgment.
One of the Assembly scribes bent low to speak into the magistrate’s ear. He flushed at whatever was said to him, but nodded. On matters of law, he would no doubt need to be coached through the process by more experienced scribes. He examined his notes once more, though they clearly swam before his eyes.
When the preamble finished, Xanthippus missed his own name being called, so that Epikleos had to nudge him. He rose and nodded to the official who stood by two large urns, one sitting on a block above the other. With formality, the man removed a peg from the base of the uppermost. A thin trickle of water began to pour into the lower, slowly raising its level towards a hole in its side. No trial could be won by exhausting the defence through days of accusation. Each speaker would have no longer than it took for water to spill from the second urn. The sound was pleasant on the Areopagus, like a stream.
‘I stood with Miltiades at Marathon, in the left wing,’ Xanthippus said, beginning to pace back and forth. Every eye was on him and a breeze blew across the rock, ruffling his hair. He had not intended to start in such a way, but the magistrate had put the idea into his head and perhaps that sting needed to be removed before he could go on.
‘He was not rash then. He could have sent the left in with the centre and the right in one wild charge against the Persians. It might have won us victory, or seen us crushed. We cannot know. Instead, we held back and saw many of our friends killed.’
It was as far as he dared to go. Miltiades watched him with glittering eyes and the man’s son was frowning in puzzlement as if he had not heard this version of the tale. Xanthippus knew he could not make the accusation. Miltiades had said he would counter with the truth that Xanthippus had disobeyed in the heat of battle. It would destroy them both.
He ordered his thoughts, wishing for fluency as he went on.
‘We beat them, that day. We killed those who would have enslaved us, men who would have taken our women and children for their sport, who would have burned this city. We cut them down.’
He paused for a moment and bowed his head. In another man, it might have been artifice, but in that place, with the breeze in his hair, the memories were suddenly overwhelming.
‘We were met on the road by the people of the city, come to greet us. They brought flowers and wine – red amaranth blossoms. We came to the Pnyx and we gave thanks for our deliverance. Miltiades was a hero that morning – and as one beloved of Athens, he asked us for ships and men. Seventy ships, with three banks of thirty rowers on each side. One hundred and eighty free men of the city to cut through the waves. With each ship, a dozen others made up the roll – two cooks, three carpenters, sailmakers, a navigator and his boy. All from the demes and tribes of Athens. Alongside them were shield-men in bronze – hoplites with the equipment and weapons they had carried at Marathon, at my side, at the side of Miltiades. Some were from the left wing, others from the tribes of the centre, who were beaten back by Persians but did not break. Men who had re-formed in the face of a screaming, howling enemy bright with blood and sweat – and pushed back!’
Xanthippus had not appreciated how loud and stern his voice had become, so that the words lashed out across the face of the jury. He heard it then as the echoes returned to him. He took a moment to glance into the lower of the two urns, the one known as the clepsydra, or ‘water-thief’. Water brimmed along a line. He had used almost half his time already! He mastered himself, though Miltiades looked troubled and his scribes had their heads lowered to their papers rather than meet the gaze of one who had been there.
‘The heroes of Marathon went out with those seventy ships. Forty or fifty to a ship – volunteers all. Three and a half thousand of those who fought at my side while the sea hissed pink and red and bodies tumbled around my feet. They too were men of Athens, each one of them. All but twelve hundred were lost, a tragedy that leaves us immeasurably poorer, weaker. If the Persians come again tomorrow, we cannot send ten thousand out to meet them, not today. If their fleet comes, we cannot yet put ships in their path to defend Athens from a hostile landing. We are weak this year – and it is because of the arrogance of one man. Perhaps Miltiades thought he could not lose, in his pride. Perhaps he thought too little of the city that had raised him up, so that he did not mind her being stripped, left naked and afraid by his actions. Yet that is the result!’
Xanthippus found he was glaring at the jury, so that they too looked away. He tried to gentle his gaze, reminding himself he had to win them over, not harangue them! As he paced back and forth across the great rock, he saw others had come, standing outside the roped boundary. They risked falling off the sheer edge of the Areopagus to hear the trial. Yet they remained, and he understood that need to hear. It should not have been a surprise when his eye was drawn to Themistocles among them. Of course that man had come to watch the trial. He too had stood at Marathon. He had seen his lines thinned and the left wing held back, though the elite soldiers of Persia massed before him, the ones the king called Immortals. Xanthippus barely flickered an eye over Themistocles, but the connection was made even so. They knew one another – and Themistocles knew why he accused.
There was no sign of Aristides in the watching crowd. The man he actually wanted to impress had gone to some other trial. That hurt, but it reminded him of duty over passion, with Aristides as his example. Xanthippus glanced into the water urn once more, biting his lip. There was so much he wanted to say, but the restraint of time forced him to be concise. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, so that those in the rear leaned forward to hear him over the breeze.
‘We understand hubris, we Greeks. It is a danger for all men, but especially for us in our achievements. It tempts us and seduces us – to do more, to risk more, to try one more time. Do the gods not love us? Are we not glorious? Is one victory ever enough? That is the voice that tempted Miltiades. We cheered him – and he drank it in and still felt thirst.’
With relief, Xanthippus had brought himself back to the text he had prepared. He almost unrolled it, but the fluency of working without had been intoxicating and he was reluctant. The very thing he described in Miltiades was seducing him at that instant, he realised wryly. Instead, he took a breath and unrolled his scroll to the right spot.
‘I will bring you Captain Arceus of the warship Dolphin and a hoplite from a ship well named Justice. You will hear an account of arrogance from Miltiades, of a landing made without proper scouting parties that turned into a slaughter. You will hear how one man’s desire for glory tore the heart out of our fleet. I will ask you then for the harshest punishment, as befits the fortunes sent to the bottom of the sea – and the lives lost.’
He paused once more to bow his head. As if in answer, water spilled from a hole in the lower urn, ending his time to speak. Xanthippus nodded to the magistrate, who sat, stunned at what he had heard. The man wiped sweat from his forehead and his hand darkened the cloth of his robe when he wiped it down himself.
Xanthippus resumed his seat and Epikleos leaned in.
‘Well done, Xan. That is a good start.’
‘We’ll see,’ Xanthippus said, though he felt his heart beating so hard it made him dizzy. Pride was truly a danger, he realised. It was like strong wine in the blood to have other men look at him in awe. He glanced to where he had seen Themistocles and found the man staring back in his direction. Xanthippus dipped his head once and Themistocles copied the action, acknowledging one another.
Slaves refilled the water urns and topped up the levels as Miltiades rose to his feet. He looked very pale, his flesh more like dead marble than anything alive. Even in the morning cool, he was already sweating. The tunic he wore ended at his thighs, so that the thick cloth bandages were visible to all. Xanthippus had not seen the wound, but the entire leg looked swollen and there was a darker hue above and below, as if rot was spreading there. Xanthippus found himself wincing at the thought. He had seen such things before, when a wound failed to bleed clean and took on some foul vapour, becoming so corrupt it had to be cut out. The result was usually death. It was why they poured wine into wounds and packed them with wet bread as a poultice, draining the pus as it arose.
Miltiades leaned on his crutch as he stood before the jury that would decide his fate. There would be no striding back and forth for him, that much was obvious. Instead, he cleared his throat and began. Xanthippus sat forward, determined to hear every word. He noted the man’s son glaring at him, trying to pin him with sheer hatred in his gaze. Xanthippus had no time for a stripling’s spite.
‘I stood at Marathon, yes, as you have heard. I stood with the same Xanthippus who makes this accusation…’
Miltiades paused and Xanthippus heard a faint sound from the hand that held the scroll as papyrus cracked under his tightening grip. If Miltiades claimed he had disobeyed an order in battle, he would rise and accuse the man of being a traitor. There would be chaos and tumult, but Miltiades would not survive it.
‘He fought well on that day, against terrible odds. As did Themistocles and Aristides, who kept the centre. As did Callimachus, who held the right wing before his death. We stood as Athenians with men of Plataea. We stood against arrows and spears and swords – many more than I
care to recall. I have sprung panting out of dreams a few times since then, remembering them! Did our victory evoke pride in me? Of course it did. Was it hubris for me to ask for a fleet to pursue our enemies? I do not think it was. Unless you would have left the Persians to settle and once again grow strong. Yes, I lost a battle on the island of Paros. I landed our men there, though I had been told the island had sworn loyalty to the Persians. I do not claim to have been without flaw, only that in the moment, when decisions have to be made, mistakes are made too, amidst the victories. Men go before they have received orders, or hold back when they should go forward. If they are men of honour, they come to regret their failings, as I do.’
When he looked over to Xanthippus, his eyes were terrible, sore and red as if a fever raged in him.
‘Yet as you sit here, on cool stone, to judge my decisions while the waves crashed and my officers looked to me for orders, you cannot know what it was like to be there. You think to punish me for my loss? I am punished every day by the thoughts of the men who drowned, by friends I saw cut down as I fought for my life. Yes, I was rash…’
He caught himself, aware that he had crossed a line in his own admission. A whisper went around the jury and those gathered to watch.
‘… I went forward, with all the knowledge I had at that moment. And I lost. At Marathon, I won; at Paros, I lost. That is the life of a strategos and an archon – a leader. In the end, all you can ask is for more victories than defeats. That is all I can offer.’
He waved a hand as if to dismiss them all, his face twisting. It seemed their judgment was beneath his contempt. Xanthippus could hardly believe it when Miltiades returned to his seat, helped by his son. Had his illness so weakened him? His defence seemed to be at an end and he sat there, with his head slightly bowed, staring at nothing while the scribes he had hired fussed and tried to gain his attention.
The magistrate too seemed to have expected more. There was no sign yet of water spilling from the lower urn. The man spread his hands in silent question, looking around. When no one replied, he leaned over to one of the court scribes and exchanged furiously whispered questions.
The Gates of Athens Page 15