Achilles His Armour

by Peter Green

  Hymen, O Hymenaeus!

  Come Hymen, come Hymenaeus!

  The shadow moved, stepped forward with lithe deliberation. For an instant she saw; in the light of the lamp, the lean body that had stirred her young heart—so long ago, it seemed now—saw too, with a leap of terror, the burning eyes, the half-opened lips of a face she scarcely recognised. Then the light was gone, pinched between a strong finger and thumb, and that body was pressed hard against hers, smooth and muscled, fever-hot, moving tumultuously: and the hands she had watched grasped her as if she were a toy, and his lips were on hers, not with the gentleness of love she had dreamed of, but hard, trembling with uncontrolled desire.

  In that blinding moment she understood the full meaning of all that Pyrrha had ever told her. Her nostrils were revolted by a smell that she had never known: the sour, heavy, animal smell of male flesh, mingled with wine; the sweating acridity of male hair. His beard scoured her flesh: she could hear nothing but the hoarse panting of his breath. Suddenly, with desperate strength, she pushed him away and cried, ‘No! No! Please, no!’ But he only laughed and ground her close against him, smothering her cries with a kiss that held her bruised and breathless, that seemed to pierce and outrage her utterly. Half-fainting, she dimly felt the sickness rising in her belly, the acid taste of half-digested wine in her throat. Then every feeling was drowned in a great stab of pain that ran up through her loins like fire. She shrieked aloud in agony; but the singers outside heard nothing as their chant swelled louder and louder:

  Hymen, O Hymenaeus!

  Come Hymen, come Hymenaeus!

  Her senses swimming, her body bathed in cold sweat, every muscle taut, she only knew, with terror and disgust, that she was about to vomit up her very soul.

  Chapter 20

  The truce dragged on for an uneasy year. There were many who welcomed it: in particular the farmers and landowners, who at long last began to set their ruined estates in order without fear that the next campaigning season would see all their labour undone once more. There were some who resented it: Cleon, who saw his chances of power tamely slipping away from him; Brasidas, turning a blind eye to the truce, fighting a lonely yet brilliantly successful campaign in the Chalcidic peninsula.

  For Hipparete it was as if time, and feeling, and reality had all stopped. She went about her household duties silently and automatically, among the servants who despised her, and mocked her behind her back when they were not covertly insolent to her face. She did not know what to think, or believe; and there was no one to guide her. She thought of running away to her father; but a sense of duty; coupled with a streak of that stubborn pride which ran in the family, kept her from this last confession of failure.

  But gradually, she came to establish some sort of real control over her household. She had found the place in vile disorder, as might have been expected in a bachelor establishment; and at first her state of mind prevented her from dealing with it at all. But once she had realised that in effect she controlled the finances (since her dowry was still in her own name, and she had full use of it), the voice of authority soon followed. She appointed a new housekeeper, though Alcibiades would not let his own steward go; she had one or two of the more idle or recalcitrant slaves well whipped, and their fellows soon fell into her stricter ways. Hipparete began to take a curious pride in her duties; perhaps because they were the only thing left she could call her own, all that gave her a separate entity or any real existence.

  After that one dreadful night Alcibiades had never treated her as if she were his wife; and for a while she was thankful. He never mentioned the episode at all; their relationship was that of master and housekeeper, and in this respect he never needed to complain. She kept his accounts and saved him money. She made the slavegirls weave the cloth they needed instead of buying it on the open market as Alcibiades had done. She planned his feasts and drinking-parties, seeing that the wine was chilled with snow and of good quality: Hipponicus had taught her to judge a fine vintage. Alcibiades soon began to take her for granted.

  Again and again she asked herself why she did not leave him. It was hard to find an answer. For long weeks at a time he would sleep away from home, and she could only guess where he was her imagination, bruised by experience, fouled by Pyrrha’s whispering, told her clearly enough. She was at first grateful for the respite, as she thought it; then, gradually, she came, to find herself bitterly resenting his behaviour.

  She went often to the Market now herself, accompanied by her housekeeper; she would not delegate authority, she must needs pick and choose everything for herself. Among, the stall-keepers, despite her slight figure and immature face, she became known as something of a haggling scold; but she had an eye for a bargain, and they respected her accordingly.

  In the Market she also saw other women. These did not wear a modest white dress, or go decently veiled; among the drab brown or black jerkins of the working folk, they stood out in vivid colours, yellow, scarlet, purple, green, their tunics hung in extravagant style, patterned with stars or flowers, barred in blue and gold, their faces thickly rouged, their eyelids darkened. They all seemed to Hipparete to look through her, with pity and derision. Any one of these, she thought, her nails biting into her palms, might have . . . might be . . . She refused to think, but the images crowded before her mind’s eye, she could not drive them away. It never occurred to her to ask herself why she cared.

  If there is a fault it is mine, she thought one night as she lay in bed alone. Her mind stumbled awkwardly along the unfamiliar path, trying to recognise hidden pitfalls. This life is no more than what Pyrrha told me I should find. I ought to be content . . . But she could not convince herself. On that first morning when she had seen a golden-haired god kneeling naked in a shaft of sunlight, something long imprisoned had begun to stir within her; and now, despite all that had happened, it began to stir again: little by little, tentatively, looking for it knew not what.

  More than anything else, she longed for a child.

  • • • • •

  As soon as Alcibiades came into the bedchamber Hipparete saw that he was drunk. Yet he seemed neither violent nor lecherous; and on his face was an incongruous melancholy. It was late; the lamp she had left burning against his return was almost empty of oil.

  She watched him in silence while he clumsily undressed, throwing sandals, tunic and belt on to the floor. With sudden amazement—yet the moment the thought struck her she was aware that she had always known it unconsciously—she realised that behind his physical strength, his verbal assurance, lay utter uncertainty. As he stood naked she saw him more naked yet: a child almost, nervous and sensitive, hiding behind a towering pride that would never let him admit defeat or beg for comfort.

  Intuitively she knew what she had to do. When she felt him stretched out beside her, without a word she took him in her arms, stroking his hair, soothing him as a mother would her child. At first he was rigid, every muscle taut, as if withholding himself from her sudden intimacy; but he did not push her away. Then he began to tremble uncontrollably, with hard grinding sobs that seemed to be forced up from his belly.

  Hipparete was shocked and frightened. She had never before seen a man cry. These were not the easy tears of a girl; they were tortured, elemental, as if some fragment of him was torn away with each fresh outburst. But she held him close still. Then he began to talk in a low broken voice, gasping and choking, about things she hardly understood: how Pericles had failed, and he himself would fail before the brutish indifference of the people; and much more of intrigue and war, and always Athens, Athens, Athens, as if the City were a sentient being, a woman who would betray him. Yet all the time, while he spilt up his doubts and fears, she knew that there was something he never mentioned. She remembered her father’s words, ‘There was some old scandal when he was in Pericles’ house.’ Half-hints and allusions that Pyrrha had made rose in her mind. She should have felt horror; yet this, as a woman, was something she could understand. When at last he w
as silent she drew him closer, amazed at her own temerity; and after a little felt, gentle and uncertain as a young boy’s, his own answering warmth.

  The next morning his defensive mask was back. He spoke with angry self-contempt of his maudlin display, avoiding his wife’s eye, striding about the room as he dressed with quick restless movements. Hipparete had hoped for nothing else. Yet, however uncertainly, she was beginning to see her way clear.

  In the stormy days of January, when the trees were swept bare and the rain-clouds drove in mercilessly from the south-west, she knew, in fear and exultation, that her one great wish would be fulfilled.

  • • • • •

  With the summer of the following year came the change of heart that Cleon had hoped for. The first sign of it was the dispatch of a secret agent to Sicily. By August he was back in Athens, having accomplished more alone than the entire expedition which had cost Athens so dear five years before. Eagerly Cleon, who had been elected General once more, listened to his news. Treaties had been arranged with Camarina and Agrigenturn in Sicily, and several of the vital ports on the southernmost heel of Italy. Syracuse was obdurate, as had been expected; but the agent could provide him with a full and detailed account of her harbour defences, the number of ships she had in commission, the disposition of her forces. They talked long into the night; and when the agent at last took his leave, carrying the precious bag of gold that was the reward for his labours, Cleon remained motionless for an hour longer, weighing the chances of the coming months. That day he had been given the command he longed for; within a week he would sail for Chalcidice to measure his strength at last with Brasidas. Slowly, but surely, the pattern he had worked for so long was taking shape.

  • • • • •

  Hipparete’s housekeeper and the old midwife from the Piraeus sat together in the dimly-lit bedchamber, talking in soft whispers, watching the figure that twisted and muttered in the great bed.

  ‘It’ll be soon now,’ said the housekeeper, staring at her mistress with a practised but compassionate eye.

  The midwife clucked and muttered as she laid out her instruments on a clean white cloth at her feet. In a corner of the room a bronze cauldron was boiling over a brazier. The gentle bubbling of the water formed an unnoticed background to their words. ‘She’ll have a hard time of it, poor soul,’ the old woman said, rubbing her long bony nose and pushing back the straggling grey hair from her forehead. ‘But then these families are all the same. I’ve seen it time and again. All the strength’s been bred out of them.’ She went on in a ghoulish whisper of the monstrous births she had attended: half-formed creatures that had been done away with secretly, brats with three hands or no hands at all, twins with two heads but one body.

  ‘The Gods forbid,’ said the housekeeper, glancing at the blue amulet that rose and fell on Hipparete’s breast with her laboured breathing. ‘Yet it’s not her I’m thinking of most, poor child. The master’s been a changed man since he knew. But if things go amiss, I daren’t think what he’ll do or say. If it hadn’t been for this, he’d have been away to the wars.’

  ‘If it weren’t for men like Cleon, there’d be no war,’ said the midwife. ‘I’ve lived a long time. I never thought I’d see a tanner as a general—’

  She was interrupted by a heavy groan from the bed. The housekeeper looked at her, and they both nodded.

  But when, three hours later, they took their news to Alcibiades, it was with heavy hearts and lagging steps.

  He sprang up as they came in; but at the look on their faces the eager question died on his lips.

  ‘The child is dead,’ said he. It was a statement rather than a question.

  ‘There was nothing that could be done, master,’ said the old midwife. ‘It was . . . born dead.’

  Alcibiades stood there, quietly tapping on the table with his fingers. They had expected grief, anger perhaps. This inhuman calm was more frightening than either.

  ‘And my wife?’ he asked, in the same flat voice.

  ‘She is ill. Very ill. But she will live.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Alcibiades, and was silent again for a moment. Then—‘The child. Was it—a boy?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. It was a boy. It would have been a fine child.’

  ‘I must thank you for all you have done,’ Alcibiades said to the old woman. He seemed not to have heard her last words. ‘My steward will see you are suitably rewarded for your pains.’

  The old woman bowed her head. Then she said: My lord . . . will you not go to your wife?’

  Alcibiades’ face suddenly flushed with anger. ‘My steward will see to you,’ he repeated. ‘Now go. Go at once, both of you . . .’

  As they withdrew, with frightened backward glances, he began to weep, silently. Yet it was as much for himself as for his wife, or the child he had lost.

  • • • • •

  Cleon stood, somewhat at a loss, with two of his lieutenants and a strong bodyguard, at the edge of the marshy lake which the Strymon formed immediately to the north of Amphipolis. Behind them the whole army waited in battle formation. He struck moodily at a tall clump of reeds in front of him, his heavy boots squelching in the mud. His eye followed the uncompromising course of the fortifications, the great arc which the river: made round the whole area, finally losing itself towards Eion and the sea, low among monotonous mud-flats. The gates of the city were shut and barred; not a sound disturbed the midday stillness.

  ‘There can be no one to defend it,’ said Cleon. Nobody contradicted him. His gaze swept the walls and turrets. They were bare and deserted. ‘Brasidas must be in the hills still.’

  ‘Possibly,’ said the captain who had persuaded him to march. Cleon slashed at the clump of reeds. ‘If we had siege engines—’ he began, and broke off the sentence.

  ‘Of course,’ said the captain expressionlessly.

  ‘We cannot take the town without them,’ insisted Cleon. He sounded as if he expected to be contradicted.

  ‘No,’ said the captain, in the same voice as before.

  ‘In that case, I do not see there is, any good reason for staying here. We have made a valuable survey of the terrain. We cannot storm a town without siege-craft. We cannot invest it without reinforcements. I do not believe Brasidas is here at all. And it is Brasidas we must find.’ His voice faltered; the oratorical boom was oddly hollow, like a great cracked bell. But the captain only nodded placidly at each point he made. Cleon was affected with a compulsion to go on explaining himself; the less contradiction he received, the more persistently he stumbled on. It was, in the middle of this scene that the scouts made their report.

  They had been posted in a cave, high on the mountain-side above Brasidas’ camp. Being natives of the district they had been able to reach this position unobserved, by a secret path from the west. Here they had remained till Brasidas had marched, and had watched him and his troops cross the river and vanish into the city by the Thracian Gate. They had taken a careful tally of their numbers, and, what type of forces they were.

  The captain looked at Cleon thoughtfully. Cleon avoided his eyes. Clearly some decisive action was needed. Cleon braced himself and said to the scouts: ‘Come with me.’ He beckoned his bodyguard to follow him; and the small party set off towards the walls of the town.

  The great wooden gates, with their bindings of greenish bronze, hung a clear foot from the ground. One of the scouts wriggled cautiously along a culvert; peered underneath, and came quickly back.

  ‘Men and horses,’ he panted. ‘Thousands of them. They must be gathering for a surprise attack.’

  The little group returned to the main body at a surprising speed. Cleon said to his commanders: ‘This is completely unexpected . . . We’re not in a position to fight without our reinforcements.’

  ‘If you don’t fight you’ll have to retreat,’ observed the sardonic captain.

  ‘We shall execute a strategic withdrawal.’

  Someone laughed unpleasantly. The captain said: ‘I call it
retreat. You call it strategic withdrawal. In either case we shall leave our flank exposed as we march away. We can’t go anywhere except back to Eion.’

  Cleon drew himself up and said: ‘We shall have plenty of time to execute the move. It is quite impossible to stay in our present position.’ No one moved. He cried in a sudden burst of fury: ‘Did you hear what I said? Give the orders to withdraw. At once, do you hear me? The captain shrugged his shoulders, contempt and anger on his face. Then he shouted to the file leaders. Slowly, grumbling and cursing, the columns began to wheel round to the south, till their exposed flank was directly opposite the gates of the city.

  Brasidas, watching every move through a chink in the gate, muttered incredulously: ‘They’re retreating. . . .’ Against all hope, his gamble had come off. He called out in a great voice to open the gates. The next instant he was running at the head of his column straight for the fatal gap in the Athenian lines, stumbling over the rough stones with the weight of his armour. Out of the corner of his eye he saw his second-in-command, Clearidas, with the main body, rush yelling out of the Thracian Gate, far away on his right, and fall on the Athenian rear. We have them, he thought exultantly. Now, at last, we have them. Then he and his men were in among the Athenians, cutting into them as a scythe cuts down the standing corn. The whole Athenian centre was melting away, running in hopeless confusion. He swung his column round to attack the left flank. The order was hardly out of his mouth when an arrow struck him full in the breast, and he fell to the ground; yet not before he had glimpsed the red bubbling blood spurt from the wound. He had seen it too often in others not to recognise death when it came to him. Two of his men carried him back into the city; but in his roaring ears still sounded the shrieks and clamour of the rout. He smiled as he heard it, and then lapsed into unconsciousness. The Athenians never saw him fall.