by Roger Hudson
Then Kimon cracked. One could see he knew he'd lost. Up to now, he had been playing politics within his limited powers of oratory. Now it was what he really felt.
"Do you realise what I've done for you, citizens? What I've done for Athens? Athens' leadership, Athens' hegemony extends throughout the Aegean and far beyond. We have driven the Persian wolf back into its lair and it dares not come forth. My friendship with the Spartans has ensured peace with them.”
Mention of the Spartans was a serious mistake, in view of the recent snub, though everyone must know Kimon had been spokesperson for Sparta for many years and that his relationship with the Spartans had stopped them intervening while Athens increased its power. Hisses sounded throughout the listening crowd. Kimon struggled on.
"The allies will revolt, the Persian wolf will grow strong again, our rivals in mainland Greece will resist our power!
"Yet you can confirm our power. Let me stay and together we will bring peace and freedom to all the Middle Sea."
What came across though was the arrogance of a man who could claim such powers to himself, the powers of a god, when everyone knew it was they, the citizens of Athens, who had defeated and fought back the foe, who had built the confederacy and led it to triumph, not any one man among them.
Then Lysanias suddenly felt guilty. Had he done this? Brought his hero low? If he hadn’t given warning of the takeover, would the aristocrats and Kimon be back in charge and Kimon not in danger of exile? No, he couldn’t blame himself, the radicals had been well prepared for trouble. It would have happened this way anyway.
General Ariston spoke on Kimon's behalf but he was no orator and his jagged phrases and empty clichés rang hollow and sounded like a paean to a great man who has had his day.
Hearing Ariston speak again, Lysanias thought of the meeting of plotters at Aspasia's house. If Stephanos was right, this dignified general, in uniform like Kimon, was responsible for Ephialtes' death. Yet they had overheard nothing to suggest this, though, as Kimon’s deputy, maybe he could have acted on Kimon’s orders or felt he was anticipating his wishes.
Did that mean Ariston had also had something to do with Klereides’ murder? Lysanias could understand the political hatred that could have motivated the assassination of Ephialtes but the only motive he and Sindron had been able to come up with connecting Ariston with his uncle's death was his possible disgust with Klereides for aiding the radicals against his own class and faction. Was that really sufficient motive for murder? Lysanias doubted it.
What had Strynises said? ‘The General’ or was it 'a general'? Could that be Ariston? And 'favours boys'. There had been that pretty slave-boy with him when he called to give his condolences. But Ariston was Aspasia's patron. That didn't suggest he favoured boys. On the other hand, why would Strynises have told him, unless it was connected with his uncle? What if Klereides was having an affair with Ariston's wife? That would certainly give the General a motive. Yet, according to Sindron, killing a wife's lover was the one form of excusable homicide in Athens. Why didn't Ariston just kill Klereides openly? Then Strynises had said 'vengeance is disguised.' What if it was some other general Lysanias hadn't even met yet? Or Kimon? But Kimon hadn't even been in Athens. Even more opportunity for his wife to take a lover. Yes, but he wouldn't have found out. This was getting too confusing. If only he could talk to Sindron about it.
***
These thoughts prevented Lysanias from giving much attention to succeeding speakers, though he was aware that Phraston played on the economic gains of Kimon’s leadership. Other speakers seemed to feel that Kimon should go to avoid civil conflict.
Now a youngish man, immaculately dressed, was taking a different line.
Though clearly supporting Kimon, he argued that now was a time for compromise and balance. Strong parties were needed on both sides to counteract the excesses of either.
Then he sprang his surprise. Blaming the current unrest on deceit and trickery, he asked, "And who is the prince of trickery? Yes, the great rogue Themistokles. And I have proof that the scoundrel is here now, in Athens, and is behind the schemes of the radical party. Can we discount his hand or that of other radical leaders in the death of Ephialtes." His voice, which sounded very like one he had heard at the barber’s, had risen to shout it out, for gasps and hubbub of conversation amongst the crowd made him difficult to hear. Someone near Lysanias identified the man as Thoukydides of Alopeke.
That revelation could make things awkward for the radicals, Lysanias realised. Harbouring such a man was a crime. Now there was a politician who had done some underhand things in his time. Could Themistokles have had Ephialtes killed in the hope of regaining the leadership? He was probably capable of it but he owed his very safety in Athens to Ephialtes.
The next speaker shocked the crowd even more. Despite his flashy clothes and jewellery, he spoke with the uneducated accents of the slums, but his pock-marked face, and bushy beard and hair drew massive cheers from the ragged poor. This was Olinthios, known as King of the Thieves, Lysanias’ neighbours informed him.
" ... And if we don't get our share of the spoils of war very soon, I tell you, you wealthy citizens in your fine houses and expensive clothes, we'll rise up, the starving, the unclothed, unhoused, we'll rise up and take it. So get rid of Kimon, who cares only for his own, and share some of the city's wealth or your future may be bleak."
There was hushed silence at the audacity of this threat in the citizen assembly. Then the poor and ragged rose to their feet to cheer him and then turned to jeer and scowl and raise angry fists at the better off in the crowd behind them.
As Olinthios stepped down, the Scythian guards stepped forward to suppress any disorder and to tell the demonstrators to be seated.
***
At the news that the aristocrats knew of his presence in Athens, the man in the merchant's cloak and cowl became very agitated. He grasped Sindron’s elbow.
"Old man, I have to get away from here. I imagine I'll be less conspicuous if I appear to have a companion or a slave. I wonder, could I ask you if you would walk along with me? If anything should happen to me, if I'm arrested or set on by the mob, perhaps you would be good enough to report that to one of the radical leaders. On the chance they may be able to help, you understand?"
Sindron nodded his assent. Somehow he felt it his duty to protect the aged politician who had once saved Athens. A glance at the skyline in any direction showed the city walls that, with the fleet, were the man’s legacy to the city, the defences that had kept it safe – and he’d taken the opportunity to increase the area they surrounded, to enlarge the city. People even called them Themistokles’ Walls. Sindron remembered helping, along with all the available men, women, children and slaves, carrying every suitable piece of stone, even tombstones, to rebuild them after the Persians destroyed the old ones.
They started to edge their way through the attentive non-citizens. The soft living of a Persian prince had clearly added flesh to Themistokles’ once slim and angular figure but the way he moved suggested he had kept himself fit as a good Athenian should.
***
As the poor sat down, Lysanias could see the next speaker. Great Zeus, it was his cousin Boiotos who had leapt onto the stand.
"Cowards!" he yelled. "Cowards! You don't know a great man when you see one! Worn out, are you? Tired of fighting? Afraid to battle the great enemy of all the Greeks!" He taunted the crowd, who shouted and jeered back in fierce indignation. Even near Lysanias, voices expressed outrage. "Arrogant young pup. How many battles has he ever fought in?" "The man's drunk, look at him!"
Then he was gone. The guards had escorted him back to a safe place in the crowd, and everyone slowly quietened down, though there were murmurs and individuals muttering with their neighbours, glancing around to identify potential friends and foes. Lysanias sensed the increasing tension and wondered who he should regard as his enemies if a real civil conflict broke out among this mass of assembled citizens and order disappe
ared. Despite his worry for Athens, he felt strangely detached.
***
Normally there would have been several individuals put up for ostracism, and citizens would scratch the names of their choice on the sherd of pottery they gripped in their hand. Today, the death of Ephialtes had narrowed it down to one man, Kimon. So a straight yes/no vote was possible and the herald announced: "'Yes' for ostracism in the amphora to the right, 'No' for Kimon to stay in the amphora to the left, at the exit from each tribal section."
Lysanias concealed his piece of potsherd in one hand, so, when he placed his hands into the amphoras, he didn't drop it. He just couldn't bring himself to vote against his long-time hero, though he could see the logic of Kimon being exiled in the current political climate.
***
As Philia and Glykera emerged from the shrine looking for Makaria, the Assembly meeting seemed to be breaking up. Noisy men had started spilling into the rest of the square, still arguing angrily. Philia looked to left and to right but there was no sign of Makaria or of the cart or groom. In fact, there were few vehicles of any sort in sight, though a few other women stood waiting.
***
As they placed their votes, each citizen passed between the amphoras, through a gap in the rope enclosure. That left everyone mixed up together to an even greater extent, all tensely waiting for the result of the vote. Lysanias noticed arguments in his immediate vicinity.
Evidently in an effort to speed up the count so people would disperse before the simmering hatreds turned to violence, officials produced hammers and the amphorae were smashed, revealing piles of sherds in the Yes jars far bigger than those in the No jars and cumulatively far more than the total required. Tribe by tribe in turn, each official called out "Majority for Yes" and only Kimon's own tribe and one other returned a firm vote of No. The crowd was hushed until it became clear that the vote was against the great man and the herald shouted it for all to hear. A cheer went up and then a roar from the disappointed supporters of Kimon.
They had done it, they had really done it, thought Lysanias. How could they ignore all Kimon had done for the city. How would they replace their great war leader. But, then, in a time of peace, maybe they wouldn’t need a war leader. Letting his arm drop to full length, he relaxed his fist, letting the potsherd fall to the ground. He pressed it into the dust with his sandal.
Suddenly Olinthios was up on the podium of the tribal heroes, hoisting himself up to be seen. "I say, make 'em pay for Ephialtes," he shouted. A small group round him took up the cry.
Then a bright red cloak with a yellow border stood out above the heads of the crowd, on the other end of the tribal heroes' podium, topped by a familiar head with the henna-stained hair. Lysanias recognised him as the sculptor. "Sculptors and artists! Citizens! They killed Ephialtes! Let the Hammer strike!" he yelled at the top of his voice. And an answering cheer went up.
Almost at the same time from a plane tree on the other side, a burly Kimon supporter called out, "They've won the vote. We don't have to accept it!"
For all his declaration of loyalty in front of Stephanos, Lysanias still wasn't sure he could fight with his full spirit for either side. He felt real grief at seeing his great hero brought low, even though his sympathies now were with Kimon's opponents. Was there some way out of this? All round him hand-to-hand fights had started.
On the official dais, he could make out the chief magistrate calling for order, gesturing to the officials responsible for law and order to deploy their guards, though there didn’t seem to be enough to have much effect. If they couldn’t restore order, there was no telling where this might lead.
Suddenly the thought came to Lysanias that his women had been planning to visit the temples today. What if they were at temples on the market square? His eyes swept along the side of the square, the Painted Colonnade, the other colonnades, the Shrine of the Twelve Gods, the remains of the Temple of Apollo, the Temple of the Mother, that strange ugly primitive construction, women in front of that, and there, that slight figure in black dwarfed by the giant stones, could that be Philia? And then she was gone, whoever it was.
Lysanias knew he had to be sure and he started running, forcing his way through already fighting masses of men, himself pushed and punched and stumbling and righting himself. His running seemed to start a wave, possibly a panic, and other men were turning and running ahead of him, older men trying to get out of the fighting, younger men chasing them, thinking they must have guilt to hide. He could hear heralds shouting for order but no-one paid any heed. Knives and other weapons had appeared and were being used.
A throwing spear whistled past his ear and buried itself in the arm of a man ahead of him, who yelled in pain. Another followed, hitting the ground to his side. Lysanias turned. Had those been meant for him? A red, ferociously grinning face, only a short throwing distance away, that looked like Boiotos. Then the face took a buffet from the side and was that a hammer striking the head? Then it was lost from view, but there was Stephanos, making a gesture that could only mean, 'Now you owe me one.’ Then something seemed to pull him down and Stephanos disappeared in the affray. No time to go back, Lysanias decided.
Remembering Philia, Lysanias turned and ran on. A foot reached out to trip him, he dodged it, a flailing arm caught the side of his face, a falling man barged against him, he stumbled sideways. There were already people on the ground, being trampled on, he must stay on his feet, find Philia.
***
"He's probably down one side or other of the Temple," Philia said to Glykera, who she felt she now saw more as a woman and less as a slave. “You look that side, I'll do this one." The shouting from the centre of the market place was even louder now, and, from her raised position in the entranceway, it looked as though a fight had started. Oh, well, that was the men's business, not hers.
Just as she reached the corner, a tide of running men dashed into the alleyway. They swept her along, and she had to run with them, run and run, her feet hardly touching the ground. She was buffeted round and round, like a leaf on a stream. And then she was tripping, falling, falling to one side, grazing her arm and her cheek against the rough giant stones of the Temple, and had enough sense left to squeeze in tight against the wall of stones for protection against the running, thumping feet. Two thumps or kicks in the back and they were gone. Sounds of fighting now came from the square and from the other end of the lane, and her face hurt and her left leg. What should she do now? Try to crawl back into the sanctuary of the Temple? Why did she ever leave that safe haven for women and re-enter the world of violent men?
***
As Sindron and his companion edged their way out of the watching crowd and stood on the fringes near the Painted Colonnade, it became clear that things could get nasty. There was already shouting. Then, as citizens left the central area, fighting started.
"Quick, in here," hissed Sindron. He had noticed a pile of cloths the painters had used to protect the decorative floor tiles. "You can hide under these till the riot blows over.”
"You too, old man. If you can recognise this is a riot starting, you know they are no respecters of status or opinions. If it’s the start of something worse, only the gods can help us." As he spoke, Themistokles had nonetheless taken Sindron's advice. This man had long experience of hiding, Sindron remembered, and not a little of running from violence.
Suddenly fearful for his own life and that of Lysanias who was somewhere in among that crowd, Sindron glanced out at the increasing turmoil in the square and, his heart thumping, decided it was his turn to take Themistokles' advice, though he raised his head sufficiently to be able to see any threats coming their way. He knew Lysanias had the fighting skills to defend himself but this was starting to look really nasty. The sounds of shouts and screams, loud and angry, now seemed to come from all sides and to grow in volume.
***
As he followed the running crowd down the lane beside the temple, Lysanias could see no sign of Philia. Then, there, th
at bundle of black, beside the wall. Could that be her? As he came close, he saw it was a girl, shivering, shaking, sobbing. It was Philia. Thank the gods, she was all right.
"Come on, Philia! We have to get you away from here. Can you walk?"
"I'm not sure. I seem to hurt all over."
Lysanias helped Philia to her feet and, with his arm round her and her arm over his shoulders, he supported her while she tested if she could put weight on her legs. "Yes, seems all right, nothing broken. It hurts, but not too much."
He started them walking away from the square, still supporting her as much as he could. He could feel her body still shaking, as it pressed against his, warm and frightened, soft and delicate. He wanted to kiss her to try to comfort her, make her unafraid again. She had stopped crying but an occasional whimper escaped her bruised lips.
"There's a building site up here. The new Temple of Hephaistos. There should be places there we can conceal you, while I check if it's safe to venture home."
She accepted this without question, though he really didn't feel very sure what was the best thing to do. There was shouting from the direction they were going as well.
"Why were you alone?" Lysanias asked. "Wasn't Makaria with you? Or any of the slaves?"
At that, Philia burst out crying again and hung on his shoulder sobbing, so he picked her up and hurried as fast as he could up the slope.
Getting there was easier said than done. Along the alleyways behind the Temple of the Mother were shops and workshops, and running in and out of them were ragged urchins and women who looked equally thin and poor, all shouting in elation at the armfuls of goods they were piling onto cloths and sacking laid on the street for others to pick up and carry away. Lysanias felt he should tell someone in authority, but Philia groaned and whimpered. Must get her to safety first. Fortunately, the looters were too pre-occupied to bother them.