Achilles His Armour

by Peter Green

  ‘That, I presume, is where he acquired his vulgar method of address. Does he think he’s dealing with his slaves?’

  ‘I shouldn’t underestimate him,’ said Hagnon. ‘He’s got great influence and considerably more brains than one might imagine. And his oratory isn’t so ill-placed, either. Look at the effect he’s having on them.’

  The vast Assembly was, indeed, hanging on his every word. It resembled a cauldron of simmering liquor that was about to come violently to the boil.

  ‘I suppose I ought to be grateful to him,’ said Pericles; ‘he’s making all my points for me.’

  ‘Don’t speak too soon. I fancy he hasn’t got any great love for you personally.’

  And almost as he spoke, Cleon, having got his audience into a suitably receptive mood, began to attack Pericles’ war policy, which was by now fairly well known.

  ‘If you’re going to have war,’ he shouted, ‘go out and fight like Athenians. Are you afraid of a Spartan army? Are you going to let him’—and he pointed directly at Pericles—’shut you up in the City, and sit idle while the enemy ravages your farms? Oh, he doesn’t really want to fight. And I’ll tell you why. He’s no general. When has he ever won us a great victory? All he can do is to embezzle your money to build temples, and to spend on his paramour. Do you want to know why he’s led us into war at all? To protect himself; to make himself indispensable. Because he knows that if his accounts were ever called in he would never be able to defend them. It’s for this you’ll see your farms destroyed and your work ruined. Is the Olympian the man to have control of this great city of free and equal citizens? Can you love this superior aristocrat who despises you all? He never comes among you. Have any of you seen him in the theatre? Of course you haven’t; and for a very good reason. He’s afraid of hearing the truth about himself. Have you forgotten the ban he put on the comic poets only a few years ago? War we must have indeed—but not his war: our war, the war of a brave and dauntless people.’ He, screamed the last words at the top of his voice, and they were almost drowned in a wave of cheering.

  Hagnon said to Pericles: ‘Will you speak now?’

  ‘I must.’

  ‘Are you going to refute him?’

  ‘No. Shall I reduce this debate to the level of a common brawl? I shall say what I intended, as I intended.’

  ‘I think you are right.’ Hagnon looked at Pericles. He saw the grey, thinning hair, the worn face, the restless hands. Despite the Olympian’s calm, he knew how deeply Cleon’s words must have bitten home. In the enormous silence that followed the cheering of Cleon’s speech, he watched the tall, elegant figure slowly climbing to the empty rostrum. How alone he is; how utterly alone, thought Hagnon. There can be no greater blow to his heart than to know, at long last, the full measure of the hate that is stored up against him. He will never be able to understand it. He has always believed that the people shared his dream, that all he did was for their good. And now they turn and rend him. He has never understood ordinary folk, thought Hagnon, their everyday ambitions and prejudices, their small desires, their limited hopes of peace and comfort. Does he really think they are all as he is? Can’t he realise that not one man in ten here understands a quarter of what he has fought for through all these years, and would care nothing for it if he did?

  Pericles stood on the rostrum and gazed out over the waiting throng to the dark wintry sea, to the humped blur on the horizon that was Aegina. The crowd was once more tense and attentive: but for a long moment he was unconscious of it. Faces rose up before him, huge and accusing. Pheidias, Anaxagoras, the herald Anthemocritus: it was he who had been responsible for their death or exile. Hagnon and Nicias, whispering behind his back. Cleon and Thucydides. His own sons. Xanthippus’ words still rang in his ears. And lastly, more deadly than any of the others, the young Alcibiades and Aspasia. He passed a trembling hand across his eyes. But the voice at the back of his mind which had sustained him for so long said: Go on. What you suffer will be the price of your greatness. He took a deep breath and looked fixedly down at the upturned faces. He saw the Spartan ambassadors, their faces impassive masks; Cleon, chin in hand, his eyes fixed on him; and many others, waiting on his words. As the speech he had prepared flowed back into his mind, he knew he would carry the day. In a calm and authoritative voice, he began to speak.

  Chapter 11

  The peace was ended; and now both sides waited for the first blow to be struck. For two months nothing happened. The galleys lay in rows on the slips at the Piraeus, and all men of serviceable age were put under arms; but the farmers and charcoal-burners still went about their work untroubled in the outlying districts. Then, one rainy March morning, a mudstained messenger rode into Athens asking for Pericles. In an hour the news had spread through the entire city.

  The clash had come from an unexpected quarter; neither from Corinth nor Sparta, but the little town of Plataea in Boeotia, which had for years maintained an obstinate alliance with Athens, though in the heart of a hostile country.

  Pericles listened in silence to the story of treachery within the walls; of a Theban attack that just failed; of the prisoners the Plataeans had taken, and the reinforcements the Thebans had brought up to enforce a siege. They had taken a number of country farmers as hostages, the messenger said.

  Pericles thought for a moment. ‘How many prisoners did you take?’ he asked.

  ‘About a hundred and eighty.’

  ‘Did you take an oath on your agreement with the Thebans?’

  The messenger hesitated for the fraction of a second. ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘Good. Now listen carefully. This is an extremely awkward situation. Ride back to Plataea as quickly as you can and tell them that on no account whatsoever are your prisoners to be put to death. If they are, no arbitration is possible, and the situation will pass entirely out of our control. Is that understood?’

  The messenger appeared somewhat confused. He stammered a few unintelligible words.

  ‘Good God, man,’ said Pericles, his patience fraying, ‘what are you standing there mumbling for? Be on your way. Every minute counts. Go to my steward. He will provide you with a fresh horse. I shall notify the Assembly of what has happened at once.’ The messenger hurried out. It was only next day Athens learnt that the Theban prisoners had been killed to a man while the Plataean messenger was telling his story to Pericles.

  • • • • •

  All through April the country-folk came pouring into Athens, on foot, in farm-carts, by whatever means they could, grumbling against Pericles, bitterly resenting being uprooted from their homes. They brought their wives and children, and even dismantled the woodwork of their houses in the hope of rebuilding them; and their resentment was all the greater because in fifty years the damage done by the invading Persians had only lately been fully restored. Day after day Athens woke to the creak and jingle of harness, to the long lines of, refugees streaming in at every gate of the city.

  No arrangements had been made for their reception. A few of the luckier ones had town houses of their own, or could lodge with friends and relatives; but most of them put up tents or booths in those parts of the city that had not been built over, till every patch of waste ground was filled. Food supplies ran out, and the fountains were in danger of drying up; and still they came in. When there was no more room in Athens itself (and they were by now living even in the temples) camps sprang up in the land within the Long Walls between the city and the port.

  Every hour brought a dozen unanticipated administrative problems. Pericles, working fourteen hours a day on military preparations, had to waste precious time in organising stores of grain and olives, ensuring the water supply, dealing with the quarrels and disputes that arose from the overcrowding. This was something for which he had been totally unprepared. His mind had conceived the strategic value of the move; the details of it had escaped him.

  At first he had toured the encampments in person to see what needed doing; but he had been greeted with such ho
wls of abuse, such jeers and insults, that he abandoned the scheme completely, as he had given up going to the theatre years before. He got little sympathy from Aspasia.

  ‘It’s criminal lunacy,’ she said. ‘You coop up the whole population in grossly insufficient space, with inadequate supplies. They’ve got nothing to do—they’re mostly farmers and poor woodmen—so they sit and grumble. Are you surprised that they resent you? There are times when I lose patience with you altogether. You sit planning military strategy, and you don’t give a single thought to how it’ll work out in terms of human lives. What are these people to you? Figures on a roll-call. Even supposing that your strategy holds good—and I’m by no means sure that it will—are you allowing for the feeling of the people? They aren’t particularly interested in long-term strategy. Can you hold them in while Archidamus burns their holdings? Can your reputation survive the charge of coward, the general who fights with words rather than a sword?’

  ‘I have held them in the past: I can hold them now. I am going to suspend all meetings of the General Assembly till further notice. The emergency warrants it, and we can deprive them of a focal point for their complaints by so doing.’

  ‘The climax of Athenian democracy. We might as well have kept our Kings. And don’t forget that your experience is as an admiral, not a general.’

  ‘Enough people have reminded me of the fact.’

  ‘I think not. Why else do you distrust your army so much?’

  ‘I know its weaknesses,’ said Pericles.

  ‘Has it no compensating strength? You pin your faith on the fleet. How can the fleet manoeuvre safely if Athens and the Piraeus are turned into an island fortress? You’ve seen what has happened at Plataea.’

  ‘There are some things about which you seem to be ill-instructed. How many men do you think we can afford to lose? Why do you think the frontier forts haven’t been more strongly manned?’

  ‘I wondered about that. The Spartans are notoriously weak in siege warfare.’

  ‘Perhaps. But I don’t care to risk losing so many at one stroke.’

  ‘If you don’t take some risks you’ll lose everything. You’re basing all your, calculations on poor Spartan strategy. If they produce one first-rate general—only one—we’ll be finished. Have you heard what Demosthenes has been saying?’

  ‘I’m not in the habit of taking advice from my junior commanders.’

  ‘A great mistake. Demosthenes has some excellent ideas.’

  ‘What does he suggest?’

  ‘Firstly, the capture and fortification of Cythera. To control an island off the Peloponnesian coast would enable us to attack Sparta in the same way as she will attack us. Secondly, to put a stronger garrison into all the frontier forts. It’ll be no great loss in men, and may hold up their attacks considerably. Thirdly, to make as many raids in the Peloponnese as possible. Burn their villages. Incite the Helots to revolt.’

  ‘I can’t take the risk.’

  ‘Can’t you? I’ll tell you why you can’t, then. You’re a politician as well as a general. Every death will weaken your position at home. Isn’t that true? And if you won’t risk your men in the forts of Attica, why are you leaving nearly four thousand of them to go on with a minor siege in a secondary field of operations miles from home? It’s unimportant from a military point of view, and it’s costing us a talent a day to maintain them there.’

  ‘It is essential that the siege of Potidaea should go on. The town is a vital link in our eastern communications. If we abandoned it now the blow to our prestige would be enormous.’

  ‘I see. Prestige.’

  Pericles said bitterly: ‘No doubt you have your own reasons for wishing to see those four thousand back in Athens again.’

  Aspasia gasped. Then she said, wearily: ‘You’re your own worst enemy, aren’t you? Do as you please. I shall make no further suggestions.’

  Left to himself, Pericles brooded a long time in silence. What Aspasia had said had come as no news to him. His staff had reiterated it to him; hints towards it were scrawled on every wall, contained in every bitter gibe of the playwrights and populace. From where he sat he could hear the crowded city humming like an angry swarm of bees, the burden of their complaint the eternal ‘Go out and fight.’ I have never yielded to mere public opinion yet, he thought. Now I can afford to less than ever. But the ceaseless current of hate and distrust was gradually sapping his strength. Presently he sent a runner in search of Hagnon. When the old general came, Pericles said, in a flat official voice: ‘I am informed that Archidamus is gathering troops at the Isthmus. I suspect that because of his known friendship for me he may deliberately overlook my estates when he marches into Attica.’

  Hagnon began to say something, but thought better of it. ‘I therefore wish it proclaimed,’ Pericles went on, ‘that in the event of his doing so, I make a public bequest of all my properties to the Athenian people in perpetuity. Is that understood?’

  Five years ago he would never have noticed what anyone said, thought Hagnon. He remembered Cleon’s speech, and the enthusiasm with which it had been greeted. Aloud he said: ‘I shall keep myself informed of the progress of the Spartan army. If what you anticipate takes place, I shall have your orders carried out immediately.’ He saluted and withdrew, without further comment.

  • • • • •

  Archidamus had halted his army on the Megarian frontier; and now they were camped in the May sunlight, the smoke of their fires drifting up lazily into the blue sky. In front of him rose the low rocky ridge of Mount Icarius; and behind it the plain of Attica.

  For weeks now the allies had been pouring in to join him: Corinthians and Boeotian, detachments of light-armed troops from the West, they had come to swell the Spartan brigades, and had considerably delayed his advance in the process. As he waited now at the border, Archidamus did not altogether regret this delay. He did not believe in this war; he felt none of the animosity against Athens that had inflamed the younger generation. There had been a good deal of grumbling among his troops, who were athirst for a pitched battle and a glorious victory. But Archidamus knew the strength of his own authority, and took little notice. He made a brief and soldier-like speech to his assembled troops, of which the watchword was discipline; and then dispatched his aide-de-camp Melesippus to Athens in a last attempt to force a capitulation without battle. This had provoked more discontent than almost anything else: even his own son Agis had rounded on him for his lack of spirit. But he had disregarded Agis’ shocked remonstrances, as he had disregarded everything else: and now he sat in the sun, brown and wrinkled, like an ancient lizard, screwing up his eyes in the glare of the sun, and watching the dusty track that led over the hills to Athens. Somewhere in the camp a hearty war-song broke the stillness of the spring air.

  Presently a cloud of dust became visible towards the horizon; and half an hour later Melesippus rode into camp. He ignored the shouted inquiries that greeted him from the tents, dismounted, and went straight to Archidamus. The old King rose to greet him.

  ‘I needn’t ask what success you had,’ Archidamus remarked; ‘it’s written in your face.’

  ‘I didn’t even get to the Assembly,’ said Melesippus. ‘Pericles had passed a decree that no herald or ambassador should be admitted once we had marched to the Isthmus.’

  Archidamus sighed. ‘That was to be expected,’ he said. ‘I know Pericles. What else?’

  ‘They sent me away without audience. They even provided me with an escort as far as the frontier to make sure that I communicated with no one and learnt nothing of their dispositions. But from what I could see I think we have lost valuable time. The Athenians have been called in from the countryside to Athens. Their cattle and sheep have been shipped across to the island of Euboea.’

  Archidamus smiled: a sad smile. ‘Can they move their corn or their olives?’ he asked; ‘and once they are burnt, can they raise them again in a year?’

  Melesippus shook his head. ‘I gave them a message befor
e I crossed the border. They promised to take it back to Pericles. It . . . seemed to amuse them.’

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘I said: “This day will be the beginning of great misfortune for the Greeks.”’

  Archidamus stared at the hills, now shimmering in the sun. ‘A true message,’ he observed briefly. He called to the officer who watched outside his tent. ‘Tell the captains to prepare to march,’ he said. The officer saluted with alacrity. ‘To Athens?’ he asked. ‘No.’ Archidamus shook his head. ‘To the fort of Oenoe. I don’t propose to have enemy positions left in my rear.’ The officer hesitated for an instant; then saluted and went out quickly. After a few minutes shouted orders could be heard, and. with a rattle of arms the camp sprang to life. Melesippus and Archidamus watched the tents being struck and piled on to the baggage train.

  ‘Is this wise?’ asked Melesippus at length. ‘Haven’t you tried their patience too far? Oenoe is twenty miles to the north-west of Athens. What possible danger could it constitute to us? You know what they say of you in the camp, my lord?’

  ‘I am the King. They may say what they will. In fact, I am going to give them something else to bite on. I would be grateful, Melesippus, if you would pass the order that when we come to attack in open country, the estates of Pericles are to be spared.’

  ‘In the name of heaven, why? They suspect you of pro-Athenian sympathies already.’

  ‘Do they, indeed? Then they must be more foolish than I gave them credit for being. I am an old man, Melesippus. When you reach my age you come to understand that war is a graver matter than mere patriotism, and that an honourable peace is worth more than an empty victory gained in anger. It has nothing to do with national pride. We are a very proud nation. It may prove our undoing.’

  ‘I would advise you, my lord, not to betray these sentiments to the Ephors.’

  ‘Melesippus, do I have to explain myself? I am eighty years old. When you are such an age, it matters very little to you how death may come. I have made a gesture to an old friend. I have no doubt that he will anticipate it by abrogating all his estates. It does not matter; I have done what I wanted. You can tell the Ephors, if you like, that I did it to bring Pericles into disrepute with the Athenians, to taint him with the suspicion of pro-Spartan sympathies. They might even believe you. Despite their . . . sinister reputation, they can be quite foolish at times.’