by Peter Green
One of the Aeginetans asked politely: ‘How old is she?’
‘Fifteen . . . But I did not come here to gossip. You may have gathered from your conversation over the dinner-table that your proposals have less chance of success than you had expected. I wish to tell you that you have our support.’ He emphasised the word our very slightly; and by so doing conveyed the intangible feeling of an authority distinct from that of the Kings. ‘We have . . . considerable influence with the people,’ he said. ‘You are doubtless aware that here a proposal must be carried by the Council before it is put before the Assembly. That is perhaps the most difficult part; but I have visited many of the Councillors, and provided them with . . . cogent arguments for the attitude they should adopt. After that it is easy. Voting in the Assembly goes by acclamation. We in Sparta have good lungs, and we know how to use them to our own advantage. I advise you, therefore, not to alter the speeches you have doubtless prepared, as a result of this evening’s talk. Behave as if nothing had happened.’
‘But the Athenians . . .?’
‘Ah yes. I had considered debarring them from the debate; but that would not, I feel, look well. They will therefore be allowed to speak if they wish. I have no doubt that was their true purpose in coining here. I may add that I am acquainted with every word that was said this evening.’ He gave a slight, deprecating smile, that sat bizarrely on his hard features. ‘I do not think that any arguments they may bring forward will alter the opinion of the people. Good-night. We shall meet in the morning.’
He brushed through the swinging ox-hide curtain and was gone. The envoys looked at one another. No one said a word. Only the Corinthian observed, almost to himself; as he stretched out on his hard bed: ‘There are times, I feel, when friendship has to be bought at almost too high a price.’ He lay awake for a long time, uneasy in these strange surroundings, rehearsing the speech he would have to deliver in the morning, till at last he fell asleep from sheer exhaustion.
• • • • •
Alcibiades to Aspasia: written at Potidaea.
‘If you have heard nothing from me, it is because the nature of the campaign we have been engaged on has made it almost impossible; and in any case there would have been no messenger to take the letter whom I could have trusted. Now we are settled down to a siege; a long siege, I think. Adeimantus is coming back to Athens on leave, and will deliver my message safely. He is a good friend, and has asked no questions.
‘I have been excused duty for several days now, as I received some wounds in the engagement before the town. Nothing serious. I lie on a couch behind the lines and bask in the sun. No one would think there was a war going on. But soon the good weather will be over, and we shall feel the pinch more shrewdly than those we are besieging.
‘I could have had leave myself; but I refused it. I have been away from you so long now that if I returned I should try to see you. I have done many things in my life of which I am ashamed, but I have never yet broken my oath. I would not wish to begin by breaking it to you.
‘All you said is coming true, isn’t it? This peninsula has been a tougher proposition than anyone thought. Now we have two of our best generals here. Why did they send Phormio? He’s wasted on land. He’s fortified the southern side of the town and spends his time conducting minor raids into the hinterland. There doesn’t seem to be any concerted policy: we’re just waiting till they give in. That will take a long time. Supply ships run the blockade and get food into the town from the sea. We do guard duty, and yawn, and pray for action. But I’m very tired.
‘There are rumours of a Peloponnesian League meeting being held at Sparta. That’ll mean general war, won’t it? We’ve been waiting for it so long now that if it comes it’ll almost be a relief. Will we stay here if Sparta marches, or come home to defend Attica? It doesn’t seem to matter much at the moment. Everything’s stagnating. There’s no enthusiasm left. We’ve been waiting too long.
‘I cannot say goodbye. I could not before. Only believe that I think of you more often than I would have believed possible, and pray for your happiness.’ At the bottom of the note he scrawled: ‘You will be glad to hear that Socrates distinguished himself in the battle. It is a comforting thought that philosophers can sometimes put their beliefs to the test and emerge triumphant. I have particular cause to be grateful to him. He saved my life.’
Aspasia read this with Archestratus’ dispatch in front of her, and smiled to herself. Then she hid it at the bottom of a clothes chest and went in search of Pericles. She found him studying a long report. The envoys sent to Sparta had returned that morning. Pericles looked up as she came in and said: ‘They have voted for war.’
‘Are you surprised?’
‘No. It’s not the final vote, of course. They have to summon all the allies to ratify the decision. But the Spartan Council and Assembly have declared against us, and the rest is only a matter of time. The question is, how much time.’
‘Is that a report of the debate?’
‘Yes. It makes edifying reading. High sentiment and noble endeavour. And the true story, I suspect, concealed between the lines. Oh, the Corinthians and Megarians and Aeginetans were honest enough. They put all the arguments one would have expected. King Archidamus was very cautious, too. He tried to dissuade the Spartans from any rash action. Besides, he’s an old friend of mine. Friendship dies hard, even with a Spartan. It was Sthenelaidas who tipped the scales.’
‘The Ephor?’
‘None other. The Assembly was wavering, and he made up their minds for them with typically Laconic brevity. Here it is.’ He read: ‘“I make no pretence to understand this long speech the Athenians have just made. They spoke at length in praise of themselves; but made no attempt to deny their injurious conduct to Sparta and her allies. I should have thought that if their conduct in the Persian Wars was good, but their present behaviour reprehensible, they deserved double punishment for their change of attitude.”’
‘Not a subtle man, even for a Spartan,’ said Aspasia.
‘But effective.’ Pericles rolled up the report. ‘Sthenelaidas isn’t a fool. I’m pretty sure he tampered with the envoys. He must have been working on the members of the Assembly for days. When he’d forced the motion in the Council, he brought it before the Assembly himself. You know they vote by acclamation? He didn’t trust them to vote right that way. Anyone can claim one party shouts louder than another. He made them divide up publicly. All those who were with him had to stand on one side; all those who opposed him on the other. You can imagine the result with the secret police waiting to see how things went.’ He smiled despite himself: ‘I’m told that they’ve consulted the Delphic Oracle about the advisability of declaring war. With suitable offerings, of course. It’s surprising what a Dorian bias the Oracle has shown during our lifetime. Now if it had been Dodona . . . No, I don’t think we can put much faith in the Oracle.’
‘So now we just wait?’
‘What else can we do? I’ve already given orders for the shipbuilding programme to be speeded up. This damned siege at Potidaea must be finished as soon as possible. We shall need Phormio at home, and there are three thousand troops tied up there. But we can’t do anything openly till Sparta declares herself. Talking of Potidaea,’ he added, ‘I gather that Socrates has distinguished himself in some way.’
He knows perfectly well that it isn’t Socrates, thought Aspasia. Why does he have to try and hurt me?
‘And my former ward has been decorated. A lot of people will be highly pleased.’ He did not look at her as he said the words.
• • • • •
The siege had reached a dreary stalemate. Winter was closing in, with hard morning frosts and bitter storms sweeping across the narrow neck of land from the sea. The besiegers spent a good deal of their time skinning what sheep they could round up in the northern hills to make fleece-lined boots and jerkins. Even the occasional skirmishes with Perdiccas’ cavalry now stopped both sides unashamedly stayed indoors. The sun ros
e angry and red in a leaden sky; the rime twinkled on the tents and earthworks that ringed the city. The only sound was the howling Thracian wind and the faint crackle of fires that blazed here and there through the camp in a desperate effort to preserve some kind of warmth.
Alcibiades and Adeimantus lay on rough camp-beds in their tent, playing dice by the light of a flickering rush lamp. The central pole was festooned with their disused armour; though it was still early in the afternoon they had laced the tent-flaps tight against the cutting wind which thundered ceaselessly in their ears. They were better equipped than most of their companions to keep out the cold; both wore long thigh-boots of fleece-lined leather and heavy jerkins and cloaks, while the bulk of the camp wrapped themselves in skins as best they could. Adeimantus had brought this gear back from Athens, and it had provoked much envious comment. Only the two of them knew who had provided it.
The dice fell monotonously. Adeimantus stretched and said: ‘No fighting. No news. No decisions. This business could go on for years.’
‘Unless we all freeze to death. The foraging party had to boil ice for our water this morning. When they came in their beards were frozen stiff. There’s a lot of frost-bite about. I’m told that there were orders from Athens for winter equipment. Well, where is it? The commissariat making its usual mistakes. Did you ever believe that a war could be boring?’
‘It may not be so boring soon. Sparta must be mobilising.’
‘Nothing will happen till the spring, though. Certainly not here. I suppose Sparta’ll demand the raising of the siege.’
‘There’s always Socrates to keep us amused,’ said Adeimantus. ‘He’s still wearing summer equipment, and going about with bare feet. It’s not bravado: he honestly doesn’t feel the cold at all.’
‘If he had any sense he’d pretend he did. If everyone else is freezing, I can’t imagine a more annoying sight than Socrates completely impervious to any kind of weather. There’s something peculiarly complacent about it. Does the pursuit of philosophy always make one oblivious to the emotions of ordinary men?’
‘One of these days he’ll provoke everybody once too often,’ said Adeimantus, tossing the dice in one hand.
‘Yes. Why is it that the genius always believes that fools will be grateful to him for putting them right?’
Adeimantus grinned. ‘I should remember that. It’s a trick to which you’re rather liable yourself.’ He threw down the dice and yawned. Outside the roar of the wind was suddenly interspersed with the crepitating rattle of sleet. The lamp flickered perilously.
• • • • •
Athens was buzzing with a fresh scandal. It made a welcome change to the war-rumours that had been on everyone’s lips for months; and as it largely involved Pericles, it was received with peculiar interest. In the taverns, on street-corners, in the Assembly itself, the story was retold and embellished at every telling.
Pericles’ neglect of his two sons Paralus and Xanthippus had provoked comment even in a city where paternal affection was not rated among the major virtues. No one had very much good to say of them; they were brutish young louts, malicious and irresponsible, who took advantage of their father’s name to abuse their position. Now, it seemed, there was some excuse for this behaviour.
Xanthippus had married, two years previously, an aristocratic girl who had more spirit than most of her contemporaries. Her father was extremely rich, and she herself had inherited and developed his luxurious tastes. Soon after the marriage Xanthippus found himself hard pressed; Pericles had flatly refused to settle any of his estates on him, and had instead merely raised his allowance by a small amount.
There was a reason of a kind for this. Being permanently preoccupied with affairs of state, Pericles had no leisure to perform the usual duties of a landowner; and instead of supervising his farms, he sub-let them annually, and arranged for his own necessities to be bought retail in the market. What he lost in money he more than made up in time; and his steward, a man of his own age named Evangelus, who had been brought up in the household, managed all the details of administration skilfully and unobtrusively. Some of the older families looked askance at what they regarded as Pericles’ dereliction of his private duties—the practice was in fact almost unheard of—but in general it was agreed that it was the only way in which he could manage his multifarious responsibilities. The only other objections came from his sons; but Pericles, who had never fully noticed them as human beings, was adamant. To break up the estates would ruin his entire system.
It was not long before the inevitable happened. Pericles was astonished to receive one day a note from a well-known moneylender demanding repayment of an extremely large sum lodged against his name. Indignant, the Olympian made inquiries; and it turned out that Xanthippus had borrowed the money, giving his father’s name as security. He had sent for the boy, who came in white but defiant. Pericles looked at him, angry yet not quite sure of himself. He slipped into a long and bitter tirade on Xanthippus’ ungratefulness and presumption. When he had finished the boy burst out, his loose lips shaking: ‘Why should I be grateful to you? I might as well have been one of your household slaves. I have to listen to what they say about you every day. Warmonger. Pander. Peculator. Miser. All you’ll ever bring to Athens is misery and destruction and death.’ He suddenly broke down and began to sob, his head in his hands. Then he pulled himself together and almost shouted: ‘And aren’t you proud of us? The noble and all-seeing father. They whisper behind their hands after us in the streets. They call us poor boobies. What else could we be in this house?’
Pericles said icily: ‘Have you finished?’
‘I—I . . . No . . . I don’t know.’ His sudden bravado deserted him, leaving him shaken and shrunken. Almost apathetically he asked: ‘What are you going to do?’
‘I have no intention of paying. I shall prosecute this moneylender.’
‘What for?’
‘Attempting to obtain money under false pretences.’
‘Will you?’ said Xanthippus, his temper flaring up again. ‘Then I shall give witness in his defence. And I don’t think you’ll like what I’ve got to say.’ He flung out of the room.
Some weeks later Pericles sat and remembered what had happened at the trial when he and his son had come face to face. He had expected a repetition of the scene that had taken place in private; but he heard more. All the hatred and resentment that Xanthippus had stored up over the years came tumbling out. He sneered at Pericles’ philosophical friends, displaying an unsuspected talent for crude parody, and he topped off his speech with the accusation that Pericles had been making love to his, Xanthippus’, wife.
It was this that lost him his case. The jury; decent folk for the most part, were shocked by what even the most scandalous-minded of them knew to be a blatant lie. The charge was dismissed. But the Olympian had been hit in the joints of his armour; how deeply, no one would ever know. From that day Xanthippus and he never spoke to one another again. And after a while the story was caught up by the comic poets, twisted and perverted even further. Pericles gave no sign of caring. Only Aspasia had some inkling of the truth. Yet even she found it hard to give him genuine sympathy.
She had said: ‘I feel myself to blame over this. If we live as you and I have chosen to do, we must remember that we still have to accept the consequences of our choice. You have not had the leisure to care for your son. Very well: that had to be accepted. But I—I who was proud enough to be your equal—I should not have forgotten. The responsibility was there. For whatever motives, it has not been shouldered.’ She paused, then added: ‘Sometimes I feel as weak a woman as any Athenian wife. Sometimes the burden becomes intolerable.’
She never spoke of the matter again; nor did he. But both felt its presence, an invisible wedge driven deep into their relationship. Aspasia became more practical, more distant, displaying in the advice she gave him over the worsening international situation a clear-sighted cynicism that shocked him despite himself.
&nb
sp; When the final embassy came from Sparta they were treating each other almost as if they were strangers. The laconic message the ambassadors brought was conveyed to Pericles the night before the Assembly was due to meet for what would be, beyond any doubt, the last time before war was declared. For a long while Pericles sat in silence; then he said, quietly: ‘What am I to tell them?’
‘You have no choice in the matter. Sparta is trying to coerce us with her claims and her threats of war. We are willing to arbitrate if she is. But she will not be. Make all you can of the navy. I don’t think there’s anything more to be said. After all, we know very well what the outcome will be.’ Then she went out without waiting for a reply. Left to himself, Pericles began, slowly and laboriously, to draft his speech.
• • • • •
The Assembly was packed to capacity. Every citizen with the vote, as it seemed to Pericles, had come not only from the wards of the City but from all over Attica for this debate. He stared at the attentive sea of faces. Each speech was listened to in careful silence; when it was ended a hubbub of discussion would break out till the next speaker mounted the rostrum. There was little formal applause.
One man caught his eye in particular. He was a swarthy, thick-set fellow, with a coarse and enormously powerful voice. He was advocating war with a ferocity that somewhat disturbed Pericles. And he had an unheard-of way of dealing with his audience. Instead of standing still and delivering a premeditated speech, he indulged in the most extraordinary gestures. He waved his arms. He slapped his thigh. He bounded about the platform like a madman. His voice now sank to an ominous growl, now rose in a shriek like a singed sow.
Pericles leant over to Hagnon. ‘Who’s that?’ he inquired.
‘Don’t you know? Cleon. He’s largely taken over Thucydides’ position with the popular party. He owns a tannery.’
