28
Eclipse
We failed to take Syracuse that night because the moon fought against us, but taking Syracuse had never been my uncle’s real objective in coming to Sicily. He had done his best to snatch victory from defeat, but his chief resolve had always been to bring home what remained of the First Expedition.
With the blood fresh on him, he was arguing with Nicias at dawn. We still had plenty of ships; the two expeditions might sail safely home together. Nicias said stubbornly, ‘You’re talking defeat, Demosthenes. I won’t give up the struggle so easily. In any case, I cannot go until I get my official recall from the Assembly.’
So we lay by the swamp, and died. Gylippus for his part was active enough. No waiting for him. He went off inland to collect more troops, came back with a great army, as well as six hundred men sent to Sicily from the Peloponnese itself. With those troops he looked down on us from the heights. We had nothing to do but look up at him, and at last fear forced even Nicias himself to give way. Grudgingly, and too late, he agreed to our departure.
My uncle gave secret orders for preparing the ships; how the poor reprieved devils sang in their cracked voices as they made ready! Nicias busied himself with letters to Catana cancelling any more supplies; supplies would not be needed, for we were going to Catana itself. My uncle, working day and night, had everything ready in a miraculously short time; final orders had been given, ships were actually manned, officers were striding briskly about giving grimly humorous reminders that any loiterers would be left behind. We laughed at that. As if we wanted to loiter in this damned stinking place, as if we didn’t want to get back to the dear safety and sanity and familiarity of Athens!
Everyone was hoping. Every face was easily recognisable now. We were going back to Athens; Nicias could talk of Catana, but we all thought only of Athens. We had had enough of Sicily.
Half an hour to go, then, with the light of the full moon we would set sail. The enemy, expecting nothing, were keeping no special watch. It was about two hours before midnight.
And then the ‘piety’ of our commander turned defeat into irreparable disaster.
There was a full moon that night, full and bright. I stared up at it, thinking that next time I saw it we should be at sea, away from this death-trap cloyed with the sick reek of death. My horse whinnied softly, nuzzled my arm, and I turned to make much of him for a few minutes, then raised my head again and stood aghast.
I thought I was going blind. There was a black film creeping over the moon. Brightness left the heavens, and a great shadow of darkness was beginning to spread across the earth. Blackness was everywhere.
Blackness everywhere and wild clamour, clashing of spear and sword and shield, shouts of terror becoming suddenly articulate—‘Cursed—we are cursed by the gods!’
All was darkness, except for the glow of an occasional watchfire, or feeble lamplight from the entrance to a tent. In the entrance of one tent now I could see a stooping figure, and I heard a thin voice calling, ‘It is indeed the will of the gods!’
Sudden fury shook me. I stumbled towards Nicias through the darkness, and shouted, ‘An eclipse is a perfectly natural thing! Thales of Miletus predicted one all those years ago—’* But I had to give up, then; I could not make myself heard against the din. Instead, I plunged off in search of my uncle, found him down near the ships, shouting superstition be damned, we were embarking within a few hours.
I clutched at his arm. ‘These aren’t the only stupid fools,’ I said. ‘The worst one’s in the tent of the commander-in-chief.’
‘Nicias?’
‘Come and talk to him, sir!’
‘Yes—’ He turned back to the men at the water’s edge. ‘The same moon shines for the Syracusans—do you think they’re frightened out of their wits? As for us, it’s the best thing that could happen—we plan to get away by stealth, so this eclipse is the gods’ blessing on the enterprise! Nothing could be luckier!’
But as he strode along at my side, he said in a low voice, ‘What’s Nicias saying?’
‘It’s heaven cursing us—’
‘May the gods curse him,’ said Uncle, ‘if he passes sentence of death on this army. Come in with me.’
Incense rose in such thick clouds that it was difficult to see Nicias very clearly—and when I could see him I wished I could not. I had never seen anyone so completely unmanned by fear; his face kept altering. All we could get from him was a babble that he had lost his luck, his luck had turned.
‘No!’ argued my uncle. ‘If you must talk of luck, surely this is the luckiest stroke of all? It’s a good omen—the gods are helping us to get away by stealth, can’t you see? In the name of heaven, man, the ships are already manned.’
The only reply he had was, ‘There is nothing to discuss. I’ve already sent orders that the ships’ crews must come ashore. My soothsayer has said we must stay here until the moon’s full again.’
My uncle said incredulously, ‘But that means staying here for twenty-seven days, and if we’re to survive, we must be gone in as many hours!’
‘That is beside the point,’ said Nicias. ‘I know my duty to the gods.’
My uncle said violently, ‘And I know my duty to the men I command!’
Nicias started some incredible rigmarole about ‘dying, if need be, but dying with the gods’ favour.’ My uncle cut in with, ‘We’re not all that worried about virtue, Nicias, we’re just poor, plain sinners who want to live, to get back to our families and protect them!’
But after this, Nicias refused even to argue. All we could get from him was, ‘Until the moon is full again, I won’t even discuss departure.’
Outside, I caught at Callistratus’ arm, laughing hysterically, and said, ‘What do you think Euripides would say? Do you think he’ll put us in a play? A play like Aeschylus’ Persians? They had to take orders from a lunatic—poor old Persians—’
He took me by the shoulders and shook me.
‘Shut up, you young fool,’ he said.
‘By the ruin of the war-fleet was the land host overthrown,’ I quoted, giggling.
His cool hand was on my forehead. ‘No war-fleet’s been ruined—yet,’ he said. ‘I think you’ve caught the fever already. You’d better come and lie down while your uncle gets Eurymedon on his side.’
‘Nicias says the gods are keeping us here, ‘I remarked, reeling slightly, ‘Well, his gods are not—my gods.’
‘They’re not mine, either.’
‘Nor—nor Euripides’ gods,’ I babbled, staggering along beside him. ‘Euripides says, if the gods do evil, they’re not gods, doesn’t he? And it’s not a good thing, keeping on here, is it?’
In a way, I was lucky. Tossing and turning in burning fever, babbling in wild delirium for day after day, I did not know what was going on about me, escaped for a time the sure knowledge that our doom had so finally been pronounced by Nicias.
When I stopped being delirious, Callistratus told me a little of what had happened. The whole camp had been ordered to devote itself to religious ceremonies; nothing but divination and sacrifice had mattered.
‘And my uncle—’ I began.
‘He’s gone down with fever too,’ said Callistratus wearily. ‘So Nicias has had it all his own way. Some of our Sicilian allies have deserted us; I can’t find it in my heart to blame them. The Syracusans themselves know that we’d planned to go away, and why we changed the plan.’
‘Have they dropped everything for religious observance?’ I groaned.
Callistratus said quietly, ‘They’ve taken on a fresh lease of life. Knowing that we’d planned on an evacuation was the best news they could have had; it’s a confession on our part that all our strength has gone. They’re not going to let us get away if they can help it. It’s not so much that they want us out of Sicily; they want us out of the land of the living altogether.’
* The eclipse of the sun in 585 b.c.
29
Friends in Syracuse
As Callistratus had said, the knowledge that we had been planning a furtive escape finally convinced the Syracusans that our position was hopeless. They determined to finish us. A week after the eclipse, Gylippus launched an all-out attack by land and sea—chiefly by sea. Uncle as yet could scarcely stand after his fever attack, so Eurymedon commanded the fleet, leading our right wing on the southern side of the harbour.
Nicias felt that this time we might win; Eurymedon, after all, bore the name of Cimon’s famous victory over a Persian fleet, he reminded us. But his lucky name didn’t help Eurymedon with two Syracusan divisions against him after our centre had given way. He was killed and seven of our ships were sunk, at a spot not far from the place where Lamachus had been killed, someone noted. After that the whole of the Syracusan fleet attacked our left wing. It was driven to the shore, but could not reach the part protected by our wall and palisade. Gylippus led a charge to cut down the fugitives and seize the ships, but he only captured eighteen—and immediately put the crews to death. Those of us ashore managed to go out on horseback and on foot to save the others. I brought in Glaucon, spattered with blood, but if anything too clear-headed. ‘With Eurymedon gone,’ he gasped, ‘your uncle won’t have anyone to—back him up—against Nicias.’
And, as I hauled him down, his pain-darkened eyes rested on Nicias’ tent, and he whispered, ‘No man ever did more to—destroy his country. Keeping an army in this filthy swamp—a fleet in this stinking lake where—we can’t be—sailors . . .’
‘Save your breath,’ I said.
He grinned faintly. ‘Thanks for saving me—for a time.’
Nicias’ first move after this was to set up a trophy—a damned mockery, but he must, of course, be ‘correct’. As for us, our spirits were broken now as never before, for we had been beaten on our chosen element. Fever was raging worse than ever, and the recovery of the sick men was not helped by the knowledge that the Syracusans would exact every ounce of revenge. Once they would have been happy to see us go; now, by anchoring ships of all kinds across the mouth of the Great Harbour, binding them with chains, they blocked our way of escape by sea.
My uncle made Nicias call a council of war, and insisted that all senior officers should be consulted. Making decisions does not take long when the decisions are more or less made for you. Food was running out—for Nicias had stopped the provisions coming from Catana. ‘We can hope to get more supplies only after a battle and a victory at sea,’ said Uncle.
‘Another attempt at sea!’ said someone.
‘Not to conquer,’ said Uncle. ‘Only to escape.’
As many troops as possible were to go aboard the ships, and it would have to be old-style fighting. Skilful manoeuvring was no use here—our object was to force our way through the barrier, and therefore we would try to make a sea fight as much like a land fight as we could. This was depressing hearing, but no other tactics were possible.
Nicias’ speech to the army was scarcely more inspiring. Looking like an animated corpse himself, he croaked that their chances of seeing home again depended on the outcome of this battle. ‘You are the last hope of Athens. There are no more ships in the docks like those we are using today—more important, there are no men to take your places. Here is the whole land and sea force of Athens; here is Athens—in her citizens.’
He had been persuaded to leave the actual fighting to my uncle, but when the troops had embarked, he could not leave well alone; he got into a little boat and sailed round the fleet, calling hysterically to the captain of each ship, making desperate appeals to the crews.
Commanders of successful enterprises do not act in this way.
As many troops as possible were to go aboard the ships, but not the cavalry. We must stay ashore, to defend what was left of our base. I was in such poor physical shape, I had to agree I should have been precious little use at sea; the others, from Callistratus down, were bitter because they could take no part in the fighting, even though they saw the sense in their orders. Those who have never fought may think it ridiculous that men should curse the fact that they merely watched a battle, but it is often worse to watch than to take part in fighting—especially such fighting as we had to watch.
I could try to describe it technically, start by repeating that there was no room for skilled manoeuvre, that this therefore was not so much one grand engagement as a crowd of separate battles in a cramped space—and then all that sun-glittering nightmare comes back to me. We could not see everything in the confusion, only what was taking place immediately before us. We Athenians stood together in a shore position that was cramped enough, God knows, but, even so, we would be watching different ship-to-ship encounters, so that some of us would be yelling with joy when one of our ships rammed a Syracusan, while comrades only half a dozen yards away would be groaning and cursing as one of our ships gave way in another duel. Yet we would not know that they despaired while we exulted—the noise was so tremendous that one could only see open, yelling mouths, but could not distinguish what they were shouting.
That noise—the ceaseless crash of ships shivering in pieces, the endless clamour of human voices raised in terror, triumph, hope, defeat, anguish, despair—all so blended as to be indistinguishable. On board the ships themselves the crash of broken timbers, the splintering of oars, dazed and deafened the crews labouring at the benches, drowned the shouts of the captains.
But better to be part of the tragedy than one of the audience, watching there helplessly as warship shuddered against warship, rhythmic oarblades ripped up the sun-dazzled water—Xerxes sat on his gorgeous throne to watch Salamis, and we crowded on a strip of muddy seashore to watch this other battle—spectators at the theatre, as the Persian King had been, but both he and we paid dearly for what we saw.
What was it Aeschylus had written? ‘By the ruin of the warfleet was the land host overthrown . . .’ He had also written:
‘. . And there, through all the bay,
As men kill tunnies crowded on the shore,
Or some great fish, with clubs of broken oar
And spars of wreck, they beat and broke and killed
Our men . . .’
That, too, I saw, wherever crews from our wrecked ships dragged themselves from the water at any point within the Harbour at a distance from our base.
I would notice this, and cry out with the dying men and then my eyes would seek the battle again, and at times I would be noting things with odd detachment—how, for example, the stones hurled by the Syracusans were more effective than our arrows and javelins. Accuracy of aim doesn’t matter so much with stones, which are effective wherever or however they strike, whereas if you’re an archer the motion of the water can spoil your aim, and only one end of an arrow’s effective. ‘I must remember that for next time,’ I said to myself—only to realise that very probably there never would be a next time—that the shouts were dying down, our ships retiring—what was left of them.
There were not so many left. At least Poseidon should be our firm friend now; we had sent him men and splendid ships enough.
They had fought heroically from dawn almost to dusk; it had not seemed so long. They had almost managed the impossible; my uncle’s ship had smashed through the barrier in the late afternoon, but at that moment he had fallen, stunned by a stone, and with this the attack had lost its desperate energy. He was carried ashore unconscious; Nicias, peering, asked, ‘Is he dead?’ Eryxias, my uncle’s second-in-command, replied, ‘No, but plenty of others are.’
His meaning was clear enough, of course. Now was the time for Nicias to send a herald to ask for a burial truce, something that even the triumphant Syracusans could not have refused. Eryxias was a little bewildered that Nicias needed any prompting: on one occasion in the first part of the war he had advertised his piety by giving up the honours of victory in order that two of his soldiers should have proper funeral rights.
Now he merely said tonelessly, ‘I’m doing nothing. We shall soon join them—and who’ll attend to us?’<
br />
I learned of this when Eryxias came striding into the tent where I was washing the dried blood off my uncle’s face, while Callistratus tried to keep the flies away. Eryxias’ account was the first that my uncle heard as he struggled back to consciousness. After that there was no need to explain to him that the attack had failed.
Half an hour later he was leaning on my arm, and I was unwillingly taking him to Nicias’ tent.
The smell in the open—bitter brine, musky blood, sickly sweetness of decay—was enough to turn our stomachs, but inside the reek of incense and disease was worse. At the sight of my uncle, Nicias looked as if he were about to faint; not only was Uncle more or less risen from the dead as far as he was concerned, but Nicias preferred him dead, instead of pressing him, as he was now, to make one more attempt to break out at dawn. The man’s body was mere human wreckage, but his spirit was unconquerable as he urged, ‘We’ve broken the barrier across the harbour mouth—Eryxias says we’ve sixty ships still fit to make the effort. There’s every hope of success now—the enemy hasn’t so many ships left, either!’
Nicias said, ‘Our people can’t face such a passage again. They’re exhausted.’
‘I know they’re dog-tired, but so are the enemy. I know our people feel they’re good for nothing now, but exhausted men can always find the strength for one more try—and it’s that try that wins battles!’ Steadying himself by holding on to my shoulder, he said urgently, ‘Believe me, Nicias, we shan’t find it half as difficult getting our men on board those ships again ready for a breakout at dawn as Gylippus will find it keeping the Syracusans on the alert. I’ll stake my life they’re out of armour, celebrating in the city!’
Nicias said in a whisper, ‘I’m willing to retreat—but it must be by land. We must go back to Catana.’
My uncle closed his eyes for a moment, then, summoning up all his reserves of patience, said quietly, ‘Very well—overland let it be, though I’d be happier, since we have so many sick and wounded, to go by sea. But for God’s sake let’s start this very night, seize some strong defensive position . . .’
The Road to Sardis Page 22
