Achilles His Armour

by Peter Green

  When they sighted the Spartan fleet, they cruised away up the coast, sent a messenger overland to Demosthenes, and prepared for a dawn attack.

  • • • • •

  In the grey half-light just before dawn the channels loomed dark and menacing between their rocky walls. A light mist lay over the sea; the deck of Eurymedon’s vessel gleamed with moisture, and under his armour he felt his tunic damp upon his back. The only sound was the swirl and loop of water as the fleet nosed its way forward. Two miles away, at the far end of the island, Sophocles was entering the southern channel. A faint creak from his oars, magnified as it travelled across water, occasionally reached Eurymedon’s ears.

  He passed between the tumbled screes and low-lying scrub that stretched down to the shore on either side of the northern channel. On his left, on the cliffs of Pylos, Demosthenes should be waiting. Always supposing the messenger had got through. On his right, on the island, hidden somewhere in the mist, were the Spartan sentinels. He heard the clink of a foot on stones, and the crackle of a fire. Every stroke his rowers took seemed to echo from one side of the channel to the other. Surely they would hear him before he was through and raise the alarm?

  And indeed, as he passed clear of the rocks into the great harbour, a confused clamour arose somewhere to his right, and was followed an instant later by the splintering crash of a collision. Crowds of seabirds rose shrieking into the air. Then the sun pushed up over the edge of the mainland in front of him, and the mist shredded away. Eurymedon took in the situation at a glance. They were only just in time. On the farther shore the Spartans were rushing to their ships, half-armed, half-awake; eight or ten of their fleet were afloat and in line, ready to engage. Away to the south Sophocles and his men were already in action. As Eurymedon watched, the Spartan ships opposing them turned and fled. But at least five had been disabled, and now floated, helpless wrecks, on the surface of the bay. Sophocles sailed straight for the shore. Some of his victims abandoned their ships; others he caught as they were desperately trying to man empty vessels and put out against him. The long dark triremes with their terrible brazen beaks smashed into them as they still lay at anchor.

  Eurymedon shouted an order. His trumpeter sounded the attack, and this second column raced forward, their oars lashing the water into foam, to close in and crush the bewildered Spartans. The grinding shock as his vessel closed almost threw Eurymedon off his balance; but then he was up and into the well of the enemy ship, his men swarming behind him. This was no time for close-quarter work; his sword still in its sheath, Eurymedon drove his half-naked adversaries along the deck and into the sea with his great spear, sticking them like pigs.

  The whole business took only three minutes. Then he was back on his own galley once more, and the heavy ash oars were bending as the rowers strove to pull clear of the hulk they had rammed. He looked quickly around; there seemed to be no more resistance. Cupping his hands, he yelled out: ‘Take all captured craft in tow and withdraw! Block the channels and await orders!’ Above the falling of masts and spars, the crash of fresh collisions, he heard his commands being repeated from ship to ship.

  But at this the Spartans became desperate. In full armour they dashed waist-deep into the water to hang on to the remains of their fleet as it was dragged away; and for an hour the struggle swayed backwards and forwards, almost in silence, broken only by hideous bubbling groans as wounded men slid under the surface of the water, leaving a trail of blood behind them. At length Eurymedon, seeing that his main object had been attained, and nervous of losing any more of his troops, repeated the order to withdraw.

  Slowly the two sides parted. The Spartans still kept most of their empty ships; the Athenians backed water, towing the wrecks behind them, and watched their dripping adversaries wearily climbing out of the water and forming disconsolate groups along the shore. Presently Sophocles’ flagship approached, trailing wreckage, its hull feathered with arrows. Eurymedon took off his helmet, wiped his sweating face, and waved to his fellow-commander. The Athenian fleet held the harbour; and the island of Sphacteria, with its two hundred crack troops, who had had to stand by and watch while their friends were defeated, was completely cut off.

  Eurymedon posted a strong detachment to sail round the island and prevent its occupants from making contact with the mainland; then he took the bulk of his forces ashore at the western landing-place. Demosthenes was there to welcome him. He was scornful no longer; he embraced Eurymedon warmly, declaring that the battle had gone better than he could have possibly hoped. Exultantly he looked at the little island with its ring of patrolling ships. It was the justification of all his plans.

  On the evening of the next day five magistrates of the Spartan government arrived at Pylos and begged for an armistice while they should send envoys to Athens to bring the war to an immediate end.

  • • • • •

  The Athenian Assembly, in its most exultant and dangerous mood, flocked to the rocky hill below the Acropolis to hear the words of Spartan envoys sueing for mercy. Cleon, watching them, felt the inebriating thrill of complete power. Now, if ever, his time had come. Demosthenes’ armistice, a copy of which he had read the night before, had annoyed him somewhat; but he had no intention of letting its terms stand in his way. There would be time to deal with this recalcitrant general later. Meanwhile, Demosthenes was the darling of the populace, and must be treated as such. Perhaps even now it was not too late to make him see reason. If he were confronted with a unanimous vote . . .

  Alcibiades, spruce in a new tunic of white and gold, with a great purple cloak flung over one shoulder, greeted him excitedly. Together they watched the seething crowd.

  ‘These Spartans,’ said Alcibiades, ‘are confident that we will accept their terms. They seem to think we are so weary of war that we’ll grasp at anything offered to us.’

  Cleon looked at him suspiciously. ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Very simple. I went to see them yesterday evening. My grandfather was our Spartan consul, you know. My name has not been forgotten in the Peloponnese.’ Alcibiades’ face was bland and unconcerned. ‘I told them,’ he went on, ‘that they must be prepared for a disappointment. I take it you will oppose the terms? I should be most surprised if you didn’t.’

  Cleon nodded. Alcibiades’ familiarity with these Spartans disturbed him in an obscure way.

  ‘Well, if you do,’ said Alcibiades, ‘I suggest you go very carefully. From what I hear, that nest on Sphacteria isn’t as easy to smoke out as a . . . civilian might imagine. You don’t want to promise what you can’t fulfil, do you? Don’t think I’m supporting the idea of this treaty. I just dislike the thought of lost opportunities.’ Before Cleon could reply he was lost in the crowd, waving to Antiochus.

  The Spartan envoys, protected by a strong guard of Thracian archers, were making their way to the rostrum. The crowd roared ribald abuse. Then a great hush settled on them as their leader began to speak.

  If they had been expecting an abject plea they were disappointed. The Spartan treated them rather as if they were fractious children. He congratulated them on their temporary stroke of good luck, and warned them against abusing it. He played cleverly on the advantages of peace for both sides, and finally offered, not only a treaty, but an alliance between Athens and. Sparta. When he sat down he had the air of a man who has settled something beyond question; and indeed, the reaction of a large section of the crowd tended to support this.

  Slowly Cleon rose to his feet, his dark eyes darting over the tossing mass of faces, calculating their mood, judging his words. Alcibiades’ words came back to him. He decided to be careful. But when he spoke, he addressed his audience as if the Spartans were not present.

  ‘Men of Athens,’ began Cleon—and his voice was not pitched to that peak of fury that his listeners had expected—‘you have heard the arrogant words of a beaten enemy. You—every one of you—are the masters today of the Greek world. Will you sanction this kind of truce?’ He paused. ‘I k
now that it is your generous sentiments that prompt you to this course. But can you forget so easily your burnt homes, your ruined lands, the deaths of so many of your nearest kin? It is not the first time I have had to strengthen your wills. I am not going to fail you now.’

  He turned and faced the Spartan envoys. ‘If Sparta comes here today in good faith, she will accept my terms. Surrender the men you have left on the island of Sphacteria, and send them with their arms to Athens as prisoners. Return to us our rightful dominion Troezen, and Achaea, and the ports of Megara you took from us. If you do this, we will give back your men unharmed, and make truce with you.. If not, your bad faith is plain for all to see. You come before this Assembly with your proud words. You should be on your knees, begging for the mercy of your vanquishers!’

  A howl of approbation greeted his words. Cleon had in fact presented the Spartans with quite impossible terms. Even if it lay in their power to dispose of the key ports he mentioned, none of them were in Spartan territory; and their summary surrender would at once put Sparta at loggerheads with some of her most faithful allies. And it was clear that the sole reason for the presence of ambassadors at all was to ensure the safety of their troops on Sphacteria.

  The Spartan ambassador rose to his feet again, and spoke from where he stood, leaving the platform to Cleon.

  ‘We Spartans, I must confess, live largely at home,’ he observed; ‘we see little of the ways of other nations. I have heard much of Athenian democracy, and the worthy citizens who represent it. The reality’—he stared at Cleon as if he were a delinquent slave—‘exceeds the wildest reports I have ever received.’ There was a certain amount of sympathetic laughter; but it was lost in a roar of anger from the mob. The Spartan waited patiently till the tumult died away. Then he went on: ‘We are also not accustomed to discussing matters of such gravity in a public forum. The points your speaker has raised must be seriously considered in private, where passion and prejudice will not sway our decisions; and preferably with responsible members of your government. I therefore move that from your Council you appoint commissioners, with whom we may reach a satisfactory conclusion to this affair.’

  This was a clever move. The onus of unreasonableness was adroitly shifted on to Cleon’s shoulders; and, as the Spartan knew very well, the demagogue was not a member of the Council.

  Cleon was on his feet again in an instant.

  ‘You speak the truth when you say your ways are different from ours,’ he shouted. ‘I know of your secret police and your Ephors. You condemn men in secret. Five men in a dark room can enslave a nation. We rule our country by the people, freely and in public for all to hear.’ He turned to the Assembly. ‘You have heard this man’s words. What trust can you put in an envoy who will plot in secret to betray you? Commissioners! Private meetings! If you are an honest man, Spartan, speak out before all of us.’

  The Spartan’s face was dark with anger: but he still spoke in the same measured tones. ‘You are asking what we cannot fulfil,’ he said. ‘You spoke just now of honour. Is it honourable for us to betray our allies? We came prepared to make terms with you. I see now that we have wasted our time. In afteryears, men, of Athens,’ he cried, ‘you will curse yourselves for having followed this man. When Athens falls before us, when a Spartan commander rules over this city, do not expect more mercy or justice than you have shown to us today.’ He moved out of the Assembly with slow dignity, his colleagues following; and not a hand was raised against him.

  • • • • •

  Three weeks later the single Athenian trireme bearing the envoys of Sparta dropped anchor again in the harbour of Sphacteria. It was a golden August afternoon; even the sea-grey scrub and the rocks burnt bright under their coat of dust. Demosthenes was sitting outside his tent on the headland. He had watched the vessel’s progress for some time; now he took the dice he had been throwing, right hand against left, and balanced them in his hand. High for peace; low . . . for Cleon. The two little cubes of bone rolled winking on the ground. A double-two. He buckled on his sword and went down to the harbour.

  As soon as he saw the Spartans’ faces he knew what had happened. Their ambassador, who had spoken so notably at Athens, and had a strong respect for Demosthenes as a gentleman and a soldier, handed him the Assembly’s decree without a word. At the same time the captain of the trireme gave him another dispatch, heavily sealed. This last Demosthenes put away without opening. Then he read the decree. When he had finished he looked long at the dark wooded island he would be called on to storm in a few days, and he shivered, remembering his nightmare defeat among the forests of Aetolia.

  He said to the ambassador: ‘It is useless to say that I am sorry. I am an Athenian general, and I must do my duty.’

  The Spartan inclined his head. ‘I appreciate that.’

  ‘Will you forgive me for one moment? I . . . wish to consult with my colleagues.’

  ‘Of course.’

  As soon as he was out of sight of the shore, Demosthenes took out the second dispatch and opened it quickly. It was from Cleon, as he had expected; and it was brief and to the point.

  ‘You are probably thinking you have been set an impossible task,’ he read. ‘Believe me, the Assembly recognises the worth of your efforts hitherto. But more is needed; and can be done, if you put aside any vain scruples you may have in the face of your country’s need.’ Rhetorical windbag, thought Demosthenes contemptuously. ‘Sphacteria must be taken at all cost. There will be no questions here about the methods you employ. I have studied the situation. Perhaps I may make two suggestions, in confidence. You have sixty of the enemy’s ships in your care. I have no doubt that during the last three weeks the Spartans, in their impetuosity, have made some attempt on your fort. Very zealous of them, of course; but sufficient, I think you will agree, to nullify the treaty and leave the ships in your hands. The other point is this. With your experience of mountain fighting’—Demosthenes could see the sneer on the face of the writer—‘I hardly feel competent to suggest a method of attack to you; but it occurs to me that the island is wooded, and it is the dry season. Perhaps an accidental fire, caused by some careless soldier cooking a meal, would serve your purpose. I understand there is a prevailing wind from the south. I say no more. If there are any special reinforcements you need, I will endeavour to supply them. You will appreciate the urgency of the situation.’

  Demosthenes slowly folded up this document, and sat motionless. His first thought was to ignore the suggestions it contained altogether; to leave intrigue of this kind to the ignoble mind that had conceived it. But slowly and unwillingly he recognised the force of Cleon’s arguments. If I hold to my honour, I shall be defeated, he said flatly to himself. Only he knew how for sleepless nights he had been dreading the assault he would have to make, with insufficient men and supplies, against a desperate and well-protected enemy. To keep the ships was common sense. But to burn the Spartans out . . .? Suddenly all his enthusiasm evaporated; he felt sick and ashamed, hating the war and everything to do with it. But in that moment he knew how he would have to act.

  He went back down to the harbour, his mind made up. Then he called for pen and writing materials, while the Spartans watched, and wrote to Cleon.

  ‘I have received your letter, and will follow the course you suggest. You offer me reinforcements, and I will gladly take advantage of the offer. What I need is not more heavy troops, who will meet these Spartans on equal terms, but archers, light-armed skirmishers, targeteers, as many as you can raise, who can harass the enemy without coming to close quarters with him. This lesson, at any rate, I learnt in Aetolia. I will keep you posted of all developments.’ He sealed this dispatch, and gave it to the captain of the trireme, with orders to return to Athens as soon as possible. Then he resolutely faced the Spartan ambassador.

  ‘I have been informed,’ he said stiffly, almost as if repeating a lesson, ‘that your troops from the mainland have attempted to raid the Pylos fort about a week ago. There is therefore no dou
bt that the armistice we made is void, and the ships of your fleet that we hold are forfeit.’

  The ambassador seemed about to protest for a moment; then he looked at Demosthenes’ face and changed his mind. ‘I am sorry, General,’ he said softly, ‘that you have been forced into such a position. I recognise whose hand is at work in this. Believe me, I do not bear you any grudge.’ He glanced towards the island as he spoke. ‘You leave me no alternative but to accept your decision.’

  He withdrew without another word, and his colleagues followed him. Demosthenes watched them climbing the cliffs to the mainland. Then, with a visible effort, he pulled himself together and began to give orders for the strengthening of the fortifications.

  • • • • •

  For several weeks the situation remained practically unchanged. The Athenians strengthened the naval patrol round the island, and the Spartans, bereft of their fleet, made several ineffectual assaults from the landward side. Demosthenes firmly refused to storm Sphacteria until his reinforcements arrived; and his colleagues were in no mood to contradict him. But if they hoped to starve the garrison out, they were disappointed. The Spartans offered enormous bribes to any who succeeded in smuggling supplies in to them; and when it was seen that the bulk of the volunteers for this dangerous task were Helots, they promised them their freedom as well. On dark nights the Helots put off from coves on the mainland in small boats, and ran aground on the seaward side of the island, for all the vigilance that Demosthenes and his men could keep; in bad weather it was impossible for a trireme to anchor in open water. Others, who were good swimmers, made their way across the narrow channel underwater, towing their precious provisions in skin bags.

  To make matters worse, the Athenians were themselves short of supplies. Now that hostilities had commenced again, the only water available to them was a single brackish spring inside the fort itself; after a while they were forced to dig down through the shingle of the beach and quench their raging thirst with half-distilled sea-water. They were extremely cramped for space; and many of them took up their quarters in the captured Spartan ships, now drawn up off the western landing-place without protection from the weather. Somehow a trickle of supplies continued to reach the blockaded troops on the island; and the Athenians rapidly passed from the role of besiegers to that of besieged. Slowly autumn began to draw on.