‘Where do I turn next?’ said Nicias like a fretful child.
His native guides urged him to go on, to the next river, the Erineus, where he might find an undefended pass in the mountains. In any case, it was better to advance than to retreat. Nicias reached the Erineus, camped that night on the high ground near the river.
To my uncle, miles in the rear, he had given no more thought. Not that he could have done anything to help him now.
The Syracusans had been tricked by watch fires left burning while my uncle’s troops slipped away, and their mood was murderous. At the hour of the morning meal, they caught up with the rearguard, now six miles behind Nicias. The hunted animal turned at bay for the last time.
They surrounded my uncle on a difficult piece of ground, a space thick with olive trees, fenced in by a wall, crossed by a road from one end to the other. And still the Syracusans, with the odds so much on their side, dared not come near. Still the stubborn shields would lock together, the long spears come forward. So throughout the day they rained missiles down from a distance, at the splendid target we offered now in that confined space. There was no pause or respite in that murderous hail; shields could avert a hundred, two hundred, but sooner or later, arms would grow weary, and darts would tear a way through.
Beneath a metallic sky the air was darkened with shrill death, but for an entire day what remained of the trapped division suffered the missiles as it had endured past wounds, weariness, hunger. Then Gylippus sent a herald with a message to the Aegean islanders; he knew they were serving Athens against their will, he said, and he offered safety and freedom to all who deserted.
A mere half dozen wretches, crazed with wounds, thirst, sickness, hobbled from our thinning ranks; leaning against an olive tree, another islander stopped for a moment trying to twist an arrow head from his shoulder, and croaked from a blood-caked face, ‘I thought you Spartans were the ones to talk about military honour. Think we’d leave comrades now?’
The slaughter went on. Then Gylippus sent a second herald, this time to my uncle.
The herald looked at the riven helmet and shield, the right arm hanging useless from a javelin wound; he met the eyes burning with fever in the face black with dried blood and—he was a Spartan—there was something like grim admiration in his own eyes as he spoke.
‘Demosthenes,’ he began, ‘Gylippus and the Syracusans give their word that if you surrender now, not a single man will be put to death.’
My uncle said quickly, ‘You mean, put to death by violence?’
The herald said, ‘By violence or through captivity.’
‘I must have it quite clear. No man shall be put to death by violence, or suffer from such imprisonment as to cause his death either by ill-treatment or lack of food. Is that your meaning?’
The herald said loudly, ‘We guarantee the lives of all your men if you surrender.’
Eryxias, beside my uncle, said savagely, ‘What about the general himself? He’s not mentioned in all this?’
My uncle said slowly, ‘I make no terms for myself.’
He took one look round the orchard, saw scarcely a man left standing, and said quietly, ‘Very well; now you have your Pylos in reverse. But remember the terms I made.’
As the herald, grinning delightedly, turned to go, so my uncle moved aside, fumbling for his sword. Eryxias, himself a Pylos veteran, said, ‘In God’s name, sir, why not include yourself in the terms?’
‘Because,’ said my uncle, ‘in a few minutes the terms won’t concern me.’
He grasped his sword as steadily as he could, but his hand still shook with fever, and, in any case, his right arm was wounded and helpless, and there was little strength in the left.
‘Did you see The Knights, Eryxias?’ he went on conversationally. ‘Ten—eleven years ago, wasn’t it, the spring after Pylos. I was back just in time to take Lycius. I remember how he yelled out when the first actor came on wearing a mask of my face. There, on the stage, was the only time I’ve been associated with Nicias until this business. The slave, Nicias, said at one point, “It’s best for us to die,” and the slave with my face said, “Well, if it is, we’ll do it. What would be the bravest way?” Do you remember?’
Eryxias said, drawing his own sword, ‘Sir, you’re not going alone!’
He died quickly enough, but my uncle could not act so swiftly, or efficiently, because of his wound and the fever. He lay badly wounded in that ghastly enclosure, and before his other aide could nerve himself to do what he was told, Gylippus was there, seizing the sword from him.
So they took my uncle prisoner, after all, with what remained of his division.
That end came in the evening; the day’s resistance had gained a little time for Nicias, and it was not until the following morning that a Syracusan herald exultantly bore the news to him. He refused to believe it, asked for a truce in which he could send a horseman to find out. To this the Syracusan agreed. Inevitably Nicias sent for Callistratus, asked him to go in search of the second division.
He rode back, six, seven miles, never speaking to the Syracusan herald riding beside him. Then the Syracusan laughed suddenly, pointed; the harsh sun shone through the twisted tree stems, and there, above God knows how many of our dead and dying, was the trophy erected by the Syracusans. On it hung armour hacked through and through, a sword that Callistratus recognised. He spoke for the first time.
‘Is Demosthenes dead?’ he asked slowly.
‘As good as,’ said the Syracusan. ‘He made terms for everyone but himself, and then tried to kill himself, but his hand was shaky with fever, and he had to do it left-handed because his right arm was disabled. He chatted to his aide about some play they’d seen in Athens, the year after Pylos—before he tried to fall on his sword, but couldn’t do it properly, and there was Gylippus grabbing the sword from the fellow Demosthenes asked to finish off the job—’
‘The fellow who’d seen the play too?’
‘Him? Oh, no! As soon as he’d got the idea of what Demosthenes wanted to do, he’d whipped out his own sword, saying, “You’re not going alone, sir,” and he made no mistake about it. See that big patch of blood? That’s where—’
‘Where is the body?’ asked Callistratus.
‘Body? Just a few bones and ashes now. It rather took Gylippus’ fancy, that bit about falling in with any idea coming from a superior officer—positively a Spartan idea of discipline, obedience, you know. He had the corpse dragged off and burned. The only one, if it comes to that.’
‘And Demosthenes is in Syracuse?’
‘Yes. As for the rest of your friends, they’re not far ahead.’
They overtook the long line of prisoners trudging back along the weary road. Only Glaucon could have told him what happened, because Glaucon, of course, had had to come off my horse to let me go off on my mission, but Glaucon was half unconscious, only able to move at all because Ariston, who had gone to school with him and me, was practically carrying him. And Ariston, though he exchanged a long look with Callistratus, was beyond all speech now. He could only cling numbly on to Glaucon, remembering sometimes that at home in Athens, he had never particularly liked him, telling himself that he must not drop this weight that swung him from side to side.
‘All right,’ said Callistratus, ‘I’ve seen enough.’
He went back to Nicias and reported. Demosthenes’ division had surrendered under promise of safety. Only one person had been exempt and that had been Demosthenes. He had tried to kill himself, but being ill and already wounded, had been unsuccessful. However—
‘However?’ prompted Nicias.
‘His nephew,’ said Callistratus, ‘tried and succeeded.’
For the rest of the day they stayed on the hill near the Erineus; they were almost worn out by lack of food and now they were experiencing that constant shower of missiles we had endured from the start. However, they had managed to reach a far better position than that bloodstained olive grove and they were still holding out when
darkness fell. Nicias hoped to escape by night, but the Syracusans were wary now, and when our people took up their arms and formed the line of march, they found the surrounding enemy fully alert, so Nicias countermanded orders. Let them lay down their arms and wait until morning.
Philocles, with some Argives and Athenians, felt the time had come to mutiny. At the head of about three hundred men, he burst out through the surrounding guard, and got off under cover of darkness. After that it was every man for himself.
So came the eighth day. Even now the Syracusans dared not make a direct attack face to face; our men marched under the now familiar shower of missiles, flung from all sides. Their new objective, if they could reach it, was the river Helorus, after which they would turn inland by the Helorus valley. But before reaching the Helorus, one more stream had to be crossed; this was the Assinarus.
It was at this point that I caught sight of them. It had been a long heart-breaking job getting in touch with the native allies again; they had waited for us day after day and then, thinking we were not coming in this direction after all, had dispersed to their homes. The guide kept trying to bandage me up so that I lost no more blood, but I went on bleeding like a pig, and finally, after a few hours staggering forward, my knees gave way under me, and I pitched over on my face. He picked me up, and I muttered to him that he must go on, go on and bring back a few leading men to listen to what I had to say; my uncle had sent me because of my tongue, not because of my legs. This way would be quicker.
He did his best to make me comfortable, pulled me into the shade, away from the blaze of the metallic sun. After he had been gone for an hour or so, I heard the sound of hoofbeats, gritted my teeth, dredged up what remained of my strength, and scrabbling along the ground with my left hand, broken, bleeding fingernails digging wavering furrows in the dust, managed to get myself behind a rock just before a Syracusan cavalry patrol came by.
The cavalry patrol was the first of several, which, of course, delayed the guide’s return. After a short while I managed to make the effort to crawl a little further from the road, to the shade and shelter of a clump of gnarled trees, and against a twisted trunk I propped myself, and waited. I was so thirsty I could not think of anything else, physical pain, the mental agony of apprehension—nothing but thirst.
The guide returned only when the shadows were lengthening. He was overjoyed to see me still alive and uncaptured. The neighbourhood he said, was alive with Syracusan cavalry, but he had brought back two friendly native chiefs and they had news for me. Their own lookouts had seen an army coming down to the Kakyparis, driving back the Syracusans in hand-to-hand fighting, charging down the steep bank, crossing the ford, routing those who opposed them—the old story, but it brought me up, trying to get to my feet, until in grim pity they forced me back.
‘No,’ they said. ‘Don’t look for them. They crossed the ford, but then they saw the Syracusans posted on the lower hills commanding the river gorge. So that way is barred, and they’ve chosen another route.’
‘They’, of course, I took for the two divisions, my uncle’s and Nicias’; I did not know that for my uncle all fighting was over now.
‘What will they do now?’ I asked desperately.
They would come a little way, the chiefs thought, to the next river, the Erineus. There was the chance there of an undefended pass into the mountains; in any case, it was better to advance than to retreat.
The thing to do, obviously, said one of the chiefs, was to find such an undefended pass straight away, seize it, then send word to our people. Once they’d crossed the Assinarus—
He turned to one of the men he had brought with him and told him to give our people that message; let them take heart, because once they’d crossed the Assinarus, their march would be immediately easier, as there was only flat ground between this stream and the Helorus.
When dusk fell, they carried me to their village, promising I might go with them next morning, but I awoke before dawn; there was the sound of men’s voices outside, the clink of metal, a horse whinnied. I scrambled up, made for the door, found a little band of men assembling. I looked round wildly for the chief, then rushed to him, stammering out reproaches. Was he going without me?
He said gruffly, ‘There’s a new lot of Syracusans coming up fast from the rear. They’ve circled round your people and the army attacking them, and they’re lined up along the river bank, waiting.’
If I had known it, this was the greater part of the force that had harried my uncle’s division; after the surrender all could turn on the surviving Athenian army.
I said stubbornly, ‘I must go with you.’
32
View of a River-bed
If our army could cross the Assinarus, the march would be easier; we told each other this in whispers as we crouched in hiding looking down on the stream, but I think we all knew they would never cross it. Though the sun was like a ball of copper, and the very air tasted like hot metal, I was cold as the minutes of waiting crawled by.
We had to wait until the afternoon. We lay in dust, a thin burning blanket over rocks that scorched in the heat, concealed behind a brown tangle of dead bushes, the glaring sun pressing down on heads and backs like some new torture of the Persians or Carthaginians. But nothing could have made us move away from the sight of the glinting thread of the river there below.
I was so exhausted by mid-day that clear thinking should have been beyond me, but before our people came in sight, I realised that my uncle’s division had gone—that was why the enemy had been able to come up and hold the right bank of the stream. At that moment of realisation I was bitter—but only for that moment. For as I saw Nicias’ division, a wavering dancing mass at first in that hot air, I knew that, whatever had befallen my uncle’s men, their fate was better than this.
They drew nearer out of the haze, and I could see them clearly. I thought I must be mad, for they were moving with speed—they were moving fast although now, with the Athenians obviously wearied to the point of death, the Syracusan infantry for the first time dared to attempt near fighting. And then I knew I wasn’t mad, but they were, maddened by thirst. There had been no water at their last camp. They didn’t seem to notice the enemy, they rushed on, panting like dogs, they were animals, for nothing mattered but their thirst—nothing. All that they knew was that the river before them offered water to drink.
I had thought that when they saw the enemy lining the opposite bank they would check, get into some kind of formation, but that dreadful maddened onrush didn’t waver. They knew that death awaited them there, but death didn’t matter—if first they could slake their thirst. The sight of the enemy guarding the right bank, the feel of the enemy striking at their heels, their flanks, was something not worth noticing.
They rushed pell-mell down the steep bank into the river-bed, every man pressing on as fiercely as he could. Not one of those on foot attempted to cross; their only eagerness was to drink. And the maddened animals fell on each other, trampled on each other; they struggled wildly not to strike at the enemy, not to defend themselves against the strokes of the enemy—only to be able to drink, to drink in the last moment of life.
So they were slaughtered. The Syracusans on the right bank showered missiles on them as they struggled there in the river bed, men were slain by each other’s spears, trampled underfoot to drown in the water—and then the pursuing forces came up, and butchered them at close quarters. They met with no resistance. If our people fought, it was only against each other, dying wretches fighting for water—water muddy with the trampling of thousands, soon bloody with slaughter, but, God help them, they went on drinking it, fighting each other to drink it, they didn’t try to resist, to guard themselves against the darts from the right bank, the swords on the left.
This is what Euripides had described to me long ago on Salamis, a slaughter that was no longer the slaughter of men, human beings made of flesh and bone and blood and sinew like those who slaughtered them—men who could think a
nd feel—
But they screamed.
Although I do not think they knew they were screaming.
I believe I cried out—certainly the men with me had to hold me down, though one of them had to let me go abruptly because he was going to be sick. Afterwards he said angrily, ‘I’m a fighter, I’m used to fighting, in a battle I’m in the thick of it. But I can’t stand this.’
His companion said, ‘They’re townsfolk. It’s always the way with townsfolk once they sniff blood. No holding ’em then—but they never make a clean job of it.’
Beneath the swords that hacked blindly I knew were falling one friend, then another—Charilaus, groaning, perhaps, and then trodden under in the mud and blood—I tried to talk of him to my companions ‘He’s Socrates’ most brilliant pupil,’ I said, but of course they didn’t understand, they had never heard of Socrates. And there, kneeling and still gulping up water as they battered out his brains, must be Anthemion; I tried to tell them about him, too, how Aristophanes himself had said he wouldn’t stand a chance within a year or two when Anthemion really got down to writing plays.
I saw wisdom and laughter dying there below me, and not dying easily. I was sobbing and praying and raving a little now. Aeschylus’ Persians still haunted me:
Our men had no escape. From left and right
Stones hard-flung battered them, and flight on flight
Of arrows from the bow-string raining slew.
Then in one rush, they charged, and overthrew
Our lines and hacked and butchered, till no more
Breathed any life of man upon that shore.
From this rambling I was roused by mention of one of the few words that had the power to bring me back—cavalry.
‘. . . some of them putting up a fight, at any rate,’ said one Sicilian, weeping.
The Road to Sardis Page 24
