The Road to Sardis

by Stephanie Plowman

  And then, as the Corinthian talked of orders sent to a Persian governor, and death at night in a god-forsaken sordid little Phrygian village, I remembered the hurried warning I had tried to give him before the expedition sailed to Syracuse, and sunset on the Acropolis, clear amber light suddenly becoming a fiery red, and Alcibiades whispering, ‘That’s the way to make an ending!’

  Yes, that was the way for any man to make an ending—above all, that was the way he should have made an ending, all flames and a blaze of glory—instead of being slaughtered like a beast in some squalid Asiatic village.

  It was then that I began to weep.

  46

  Second Homecoming

  Soon there were seventy Athenian exiles in Thebes, all willingly accepting the leadership of Thrasybulus, whom I remembered as a firm-jawed friend of Grandfather. Now, what with semi-starvation and determination, his jaw jutted more than ever. We were, incredibly, the pets of the Thebans, who flung their homes open to us, and also their money-chests. Thrasybulus, his jaw like Sunium Point and his eyes cold and grey as the Hellespont current on a wintry day, said we did not want money, but a few weapons might help. So they gave us weapons, and in the depths of winter*, we quitted Theban for Athenian territory. Our aim was the fortress of Phyle.

  ‘But wasn’t it dismantled at the end of the war?’ someone objected.

  ‘We’ll soon make it strong again, and defensible,’ Thrasybulus said briskly. ‘Nothing like a few weeks of forced labour on demolition to make you want to do something constructive.’

  I said with a sudden grin, ‘You’ve thought it all out carefully, haven’t you?’

  ‘Of course I have,’ said Thrasybulus blandly. ‘It’s on a natural precipice, so that our small numbers don’t matter. We cheer ourselves up by being within sight of Athens—and people in Athens can see us too, so we’ll be a standing invitation to escape.’

  ‘But only to the fit,’ I said, grinning more than ever. ‘Nobody who isn’t capable of bearing arms and giving a good account of himself in a fight will be able to manage that climb. No useless mouths in Phyle!’

  ‘Well,’ said Thrasybulus, suddenly serious, ‘we can’t afford to take risks, can we?’

  Critias, having obliged the Spartans by dismantling Phyle, had also obliged us, of course, by withdrawing the garrison, so we took over with the greatest of ease, and started re-fortifying the place. We could get on with our task without fear of interruption, as it was as impossible to make a surprise attack on Phyle as it was to assault an eagle’s nest—eagles, as a matter of fact, were our immediate neighbours on Parnes, and were constantly sailing about us and, very often, below us, for we were perched so high above the forests and grey rocks and deep ravines.

  The road we dominated was the most ancient road to Thebes; centuries before travellers and shepherds had set up a shrine to Pan, and it was still there, underneath our fortress. That was a cheering thought, for Pan was by tradition a good friend to the Athenians. Had he not appeared to the runner Pheidippides as he halted in despair and exhaustion on the return from Sparta, and assured him that he had not forgotten the old friendship? Certainly the enemies of Athens had known panic at Marathon, and surely those in power in the city now were equally her enemies?

  The night after we finished the fortifications, there was an odd thunderstorm—odd for the time of year, I mean. At other seasons thunderstorms were frequent enough in the mountains; Phyle, as a matter of fact, had a special significance in that respect. In thundery weather the authorities in Athens would keep anxious watch on Parnes, and as soon as the first flash of lightning played around the summit, a messenger was immediately sent to offer suitable sacrifice at Delphi. As Thrasybulus remarked, Critias might assert that the gods were no better than an unpaid police force, but at heart he was a superstitious brute, and undoubtedly would have a messenger pelting off to Delphi straight away.

  It was magnificent, that storm. Far below us the lightning flashes showed us the pinetops bending, swaying towards each other, the earth seemed to shake with each crash of thunder, ear-splitting even against the roar of the rushing wind. Blue-white lightning streaked across the sky, and as the rain dashed into our faces we laughed, cheered, sang in ecstasy, eyes upturned to the raging skies

  With the cold rain lashing my face, I knew that never since Sicily had I felt so much at peace. My dead seemed to press about me now, telling me that this indeed was a fight approved by heaven.

  The mood of exhilaration—even exaltation—continued even after the storm had ceased. Just before turning in I said to Ariston I hoped the lightning had been strong enough to show them in Athens that the refortification was complete.

  I don’t know whether it had been so, but we did not have long to wait for an attack. The morning that followed that amazing night was cold, but brilliantly clear; in that luminous light we could see a large force advancing against us over what had once been all farmlands; by the time they had vanished into the trees of Acharnae to begin the ascent proper, we had full knowledge of their numbers from fresh recruits who had slipped out from Athens at midnight with information of the force that was to march out to crush us at dawn.

  Although by this time our own numbers had increased to slightly more than a hundred men, the information should have been scarifying—the Thirty’s Spartan guards, three thousand and more of Critias’ supporters. But we were not intimidated. God was with us.

  Critias, over-confident, let the younger men make a dash at us—a frontal attack on Phyle, of all places! You can only get into the place along one ridge, and along it they rushed like lunatics.

  But it is not pleasant to speak of Athenians fighting Athenians, it is enough to say that we drove them back with considerable loss to them and none whatsoever to ourselves.

  The moment their comrades had rushed away, several of the corpses stood up, grinning all over their faces, and yelled to us that they had marched out that morning because it seemed the quickest way of joining us.

  A couple of hours later we received further subdued hails; two particularly levelheaded citizens had decided to run back to Critias with the rest of the beaten force and remain his loyal adherents, hanging on his words until they could find out if the defeat would make him change his plans. It had. He was now faithfully following the strategy of his master, Lysander; Phyle would be blockaded into surrender—we had no stocks of food at all.

  Thrasybulus said grimly, ‘No, there’ll be no second starving-out for us; we’ll make a sortie and die fighting first.’

  But again heaven made its wishes known.

  I have said that the day following the stormy night was brilliantly clear, all blue and gold with the air truly Euripides’ ‘luminous ether’. Never had the countryside below, from Phaleron to Pentelicus, shown so distinct, or Salamis, or the gleaming temple of the Maiden. We had watched the light glinting on spear-tips from the moment the force had emerged from the City—we seemed to have the sight as well as the perch of eagles. Good weather should assuredly continue for days.

  But that night snow began to fall—almost from a clear sky. It was a snowstorm as violent in its way as the thunder, and it continued all the following day. The driving wind and immense flakes beat the siege out of existence, lashed our would-be assailants down from Parnes; what was more, blinded, staggering, panic-stricken (for one moment the sky was clear and brilliant, and the next the fury was on them, God-sent), they left behind all their baggage.

  So heaven itself drove back our enemies and gave us abundant food supplies.

  We were also given all-important time, time for others to escape from Athens—somehow—and come like wary foxes through the snow to join us. Within days our numbers had increased tenfold—and so had the stories of the hell on earth that was Athens these days, with suppliants dragged from the altars to their deaths.

  In his next attack, Critias was more cautious—in fact, the official statement said the Spartan troops and cavalry sent in the direction of Phyle were m
erely in that neighbourhood to protect the peasants and farmers against our raids. As if the whole of Athens didn’t know by this time that every able-bodied peasant and farmer in the region had joined us, and their possessions were at our disposal!

  Critias didn’t show much knowledge of human nature in assembling that force; the cavalry were the remnants of the hotheads who had made the wild dash at Phyle and had been so badly mauled—the survivors were not taking chances. And the superstitious Spartans loathed approaching this particular mountain where thunder rolled when it should not, and snow fell from a clear sky. They camped a good two miles away from us, in very uncomfortable country—wild and broken. Never knowing what might happen on Parnes, they did little patrol work; as Thrasybulus remarked, their habit of sticking their heads under the bedclothes at night positively invited an attack. So we obliged.

  We went down by night through rocks and trees and bushes muffled in snow; moving so noiselessly ourselves we did not disturb the great stillness, and grounded arms in utter silence about a quarter of a mile from their position just before daybreak. It is a good time to attack; the night watch has just broken up, everything is at sixes and sevens, the relieving guard still sleepy, the retiring guard already sleeping like logs. We were given perfect cover for our attack at the run because the grooms were rubbing down the horses, and currying and combing them; we snatched up our arms and dashed at them.

  It was a rout; we went on chasing them for nearly a mile. We killed more than a hundred Spartans, and some Athenians, captured horses, weapons, stores in abundance, and came back in triumph to Phyle.

  Critias decided to make sure of Salamis and Eleusis—Salamis and Eleusis, damn him!—as bolt-holes in case he were driven out of Athens. He did this by massacring all the male citizen population. The news reached us five days after we had routed the ‘protective’ force; Thrasybulus’ immediate reaction was, ‘We’ll march on Piraeus tonight—we daren’t wait. In eight months he’s well on the way to killing more Athenians than the Spartans killed in the entire war.’

  So our little force (we were a thousand strong now) marched down from Phyle to liberate Athens.

  Why Piraeus? Because it was the heart and soul of democracy in Athens—more so now than ever since Critias, in his panic, had deported all the ‘unreliable’ Athenians to the port. So here was a force ready-made for us—except that, since Critias had seized all weapons the moment he came to power they had no heavy equipment. But they said they would throw stones, and they had teeth and nails—what Spartans had done at Thermopylae we could do now.

  Of course there were drawbacks enough. Piraeus could give us men, but unarmed men, and little else, for she was now an open town, having lost her old fortifications as well as the Long Walls. It was too big a place for us to defend effectively. Yet, as Thrasybulus had said, what else could we do? Let Critias wipe out district after district of Athens?

  The morning after our arrival, they came against us, their entire force, cavalry and Spartan garrison included. We were concentrating on the defence of Munychia, the eastern citadel portion of Piraeus; to get at us they had to come up a very steep street. We were ten deep—they were fifty deep, in close ranks.

  Thrasybulus’ words were to the point; behind us heavy armed troops stood the men with slings and the archers, the slope being so steep they could easily shoot over our heads. They were going to be the key to the whole business. They would pour missiles on the enemy as they advanced, and force them to raise their shields. Shields raised to protect men against missiles raining down from overhead could not be used as a defence against spears coming from another angle. He reminded us that we were under the protection of heaven, which on a day of dead calm had raised up a storm to fight for us.

  But I myself think that the greatest benefit heaven gave us was this—that we stood awaiting that attack with the Temple of the Maiden shining there on the rock directly before us; looking on that, how could we fail?

  As Thrasybulus had foretold, it all fell out. The hail of stones and arrows made them waver, lift their shields, and as they wavered we rushed down, singing in the charge.

  There is no need for a detailed description. The first clash of a battle is always the same—sweating faces, red-tipped spears, gasps, and groans, and sobs, cries of triumph and cries of pain. No participant can ever give an adequate description; even if I could, I should not want to describe how I killed fellow-Athenians, although, God help me, it is the biggest triumph I have had a part in. Fighting Spartans and Syracusans I could not be on the winning side—but in killing fellow citizens I did wonderfully well. But it had to be done.

  We drove them back in complete disorder—with the loss of seventy men. Sixty-nine of those casualties were not important, but the seventieth was Critias.

  We never knew who killed him. It was Ariston who first identified the body. We heard him laughing, and there he was staring down at a grimy face, fixed, glaring eyes, saying, ‘What a stupid attitude to die in, Critias, and you’re all dirty—I hope you were scared, and I hope you screamed when you tried to drag the spear out.’

  Feeling suddenly terribly weary, I put an arm about him. ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘Don’t waste your breath on him; he won’t hurt anyone any more. And we must respect his corpse; he was, after all, an Athenian.’

  They came to ask us for the usual truce when bodies might be reclaimed for burial; it was of course granted. Our own dead were few; when they had been carried away, those of us who remained began silently to help the others. The silence did not remain for long; here and there the sparks of friendship, never really dead, would take fire again as long-estranged comrades met on this most tragic of battlegrounds.

  I said under my breath to Cleocritus, the Eleusinian herald who had joined us at Phyle, and who was watching with compassionate eyes, ‘I suppose there’s only one thing worse than winning a battle in a civil war, and that’s losing it.’

  He replied suddenly, ‘Lycius, this may be our chance.’

  Just beside us was a block of stone. He sprang up on it, and his voice rang out, ‘Oh, fellow-citizens, why do you drive us out? Are we not sons of Athens, even as you? Do we not mourn those who have fallen today as much as you do?’

  His was a glorious voice, compelling in any circumstances, but to many of us it also irresistibly recalled the first day of the celebration of the Mysteries. This was the voice that called to initiation ‘everyone who has clean hands—who is pure from all pollutions and whose soul is conscious of no evil and who has lived well and justly.’ It is forbidden, of course, to disclose the Mysteries, but this at least I may say—that they teach one the full meaning of life, true knowledge of good and evil, how to die with hope.

  There was silence for a moment, and then, all down that steep, fatal slope, we heard murmurs of, ‘Forgive . . .’ ‘Forget . . .’ ‘An amnesty.’

  The death of Critias, the appeal of Cleocritus, might well have ended the matter—had it not been for Lysander, who tried to get a great Spartan army marching up from the south to finish us. Thrasybulus sent me off to Corinth, to contact my fat friend, and see what information he might give.

  The Corinthian was flattered and helpful. He put me in touch with a friend just back from Sparta, who said, ‘Tell Thrasybulus to hold on and to remember that Lysander isn’t Sparta. He may think he is—others don’t. They don’t care for him or what he stands for.’

  I said thoughtfully, ‘I remember hearing it said once that there are always two parties in Sparta, one trying to dominate Greece, the other wanting isolation.’

  ‘True—and particularly now that the attempt to dominate Greece seems part of the self-glorification of Lysander. Tell Thrasybulus to hold on—to avoid excess, to leave the Spartan garrison severely alone.’

  ‘But we heard that Lysander himself is coming back with an army—has sent down to the Peloponnese for another.’

  ‘It’s that second army that will matter, tell Thrasybulus. Lysander will be sorry he’s sent for it.
Tell Thrasybulus something else, too; that Sparta’s asked her allies to send contingents of troops, and both Thebes and Corinth are going to refuse.’

  The army from Sparta itself was led by King Pausanias. Pausanias camped in the Academy garden, outside the city gate. The remainder of the Thirty gave him presents, Lysander gave him not too thinly-veiled orders, our deputation gave him an account of what had been going on. Pausanias listened to us; one got the impression he did not like Lysander at all. There was some fighting, but it was not important, and Pausanias negotiated a settlement. Forgiveness, forgetfulness, an amnesty.

  We had won, and we kept our word. No revenge was taken on the supporters of the Thirty.

  The Spartan garrison left, we had our triumphal entry, were given wreaths of olive as tokens of gratitude. We felt humble rather than exultant, for, as Themistocles said after Salamis, we had not done this, it was heaven’s doing.

  For myself, as ever, a new return to Athens brought fresh grief, for Tecmessa had died during my exile, and word came from Macedonia that Thucydides had died too. It takes months to accept such news, longer to recover from the acceptance.

  * December, 404 B.C.

  47

  ‘A favour to Lysander’

  So here was Athens, a dozen years after the Expedition to Syracuse, without Empire, state treasure, Long Walls, docks, fleet—but free. And I myself, no longer a slave, no longer an exile, with family estates restored to me, with still quite a lot of the Sicilian money remaining—and I was wretched. God knows I should not have been, and I swear I told myself a dozen times a day that I was one of the lucky ones, having lived through the plague, and Syracuse, and Goat River and the Thirty, and, more than that, being one of the few exiles to whom the official ‘restoration of estates’ did not mean simply a bitter grin, a sour taste in the mouth. For while Attica had been able to recover from the burnings and devastations of the first ten years of the war, when the Spartans never stayed more than a month, it had not recovered from the endless ravaging that followed the occupation of Decelea. What was once the best-cultivated region in Hellas will never again be more than a lifeless desert.