Achilles His Armour

by Peter Green

  • • • • •

  Alcibiades had been attending a celebration of the rites of the Thracian Goddess Cotytto in Pulytion’s house—a very mixed gathering, in which there had been as many slaves as freemen—and afterwards he and his uncle and Pulytion himself had spent several hours drinking together. They had all been overworking during the past weeks; relaxation was now doubly pleasant. About midnight, flushed with wine but still comparatively sober, the three of them set out through the deserted streets to see Alcibiades home. It was a dark night, with no moon, and they picked their way with difficulty by the fitful glare of torches.

  They walked in silence, their footsteps echoing on the empty road. Suddenly Alcibiades said: ‘Wait.’ His voice was soft, but so urgent that both Pulytion and Axiochus halted without questioning him. He stood peering back in the darkness along the way they had come.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I’m sure we’re being followed.’

  ‘Followed? By whom?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s simply instinct. I’ve felt we were being watched. Even in the house itself . . .’ But the only sound was the gentle night-breeze. The blackness was impenetrable.

  Axiochus laughed, a little uncertainly. ‘Imagination,’ he said. ‘You’ve been working too hard. You’re over-tired. What you need is a good night’s sleep.’

  ‘You’re probably right. But . . .’ He shook his head. They walked on. As he went Alcibiades took the leather skin from his shoulders and drank deeply before passing it to his companions. By the time they reached his house they were all comparatively cheerful again.

  They paused before the door. Beside them, a darker shadow against the blackness of the night, they saw the Guardian Herm, which stood for protection at every street corner and in front of nearly every house in the City. Alcibiades stared at the tall, rough-carved pillar, with the head of Hermes surmounting it and the great phallus of fertility projecting below. ‘Crafty Hermes,’ he said, in a thick, half-drunken voice, ‘give me good fortune. You are a thievish god; and one after my own heart. Accept my offering and look kindly on me.’ He tilted the wine-skin. They all heard the jet of wine hiss against the stone. Then he took off the wreath he wore, and with tipsy solemnity hung it on the phallus. He stepped back and swept the pillar a low bow.

  ‘Now nothing can harm us,’ he said.

  Chapter 26

  He was on the speaker’s platform, but no words would come from his mouth. All about him, as far as the eye could see, the Assembly stretched away, heaving and murmuring like a sea of corn. As he stammered impotently, they began to laugh. The laughter rose to a huge crescendo; and as it swelled, the figure of Nicias towered up from among them, taller and taller, till it seemed as if it would blot out the entire sky. From the livid yellow face, far above him, he heard a hollow voice booming: ‘I am the General now!’ And the whole crowd took up the chorus: ‘I am the General now . . . the General now . . . the General now!’ Then, swimming upwards, struggling out of his nightmare sleep, he became aware of his uncle bending over him. Sweating and shaking, he sat up in bed. He had slept late; the sun was streaming in through chinks in the shutters, and from outside came the sound of hurrying footsteps, and the drays rumbling past towards the port.

  One glance at Axiochus’ face was enough to tell him that something was seriously wrong. He was still half-asleep; it was as if he had stepped out of one nightmare into another.

  ‘Get dressed and come outside,’ said Axiochus grimly.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘You’ll see.’

  The sunlight struck him in the face with a wave of heat and dust, momentarily blinding: him.

  ‘Well?’

  Axiochus pointed. The face of the Guardian Herm had been defaced, smashed until it was unrecognisable. The phallus had been broken off, and lay in two pieces at the foot of the pillar. Alcibiades’ wreath, dry and withered by the sun, half-hidden in dust, was just visible beside it.

  Despite himself, Alcibiades was shocked. The Herms were an integral part of Athenian life: symbols of fertility and prosperity for individual and community alike, deeply rooted in the past, worshipped by the country-folk, and at least respected by even the most sophisticated town-dweller.

  Alcibiades said doubtfully: ‘A practical joke? Some drunken reveller, perhaps . . .?’ But even as he spoke he knew this was not the answer.

  ‘If this were the only one, yes,’ said his uncle. ‘But it’s not. Every single Herm in the City has been treated in the same way—except one.’

  ‘Which is that?’

  ‘The one outside Andocides’ house.’

  ‘Why Andocides, I wonder? He’s never been mixed up much in politics.’

  Uncle and nephew looked at each other. Alcibiades had, instinctively and without thinking, uttered the thought that was in both their minds.

  ‘You’re right, of course,’ said Axiochus. ‘It must be political. In any case it was incredibly well planned. A dark night. No moon. And every single one of them defaced before morning. But who—and why, in the name of the Gods?’

  ‘There’s not much doubt about why. A piece of sacrilege on this scale could easily be an excuse for the fleet not to sail.’

  ‘It might be a personal attack on you as well,’ said his uncle thoughtfully.

  Alcibiades was silent for a moment. He remembered, with painful clarity, the words of Pulytion. Now wherever he looked he could see potential enemies.

  ‘You were up early,’ he said at length. Have you heard any rumours?’

  ‘Only too many,’ said Axiochus. ‘The whole City’s talking about nothing else. So many, in fact, that I’m pretty sure no one except the perpetrators knows a thing about it. Some people think it was just a drunken frolic—your first reaction. We can rule that out right away. Others are certain it was done by Corinthian agents acting on behalf of Syracuse. That’s not impossible, but I’m inclined to doubt it. Then there are the political theories. Only two, when you boil it down. Most of the common folk seem to think it’s an oligarchic plot designed to overthrow either the democracy or you. The first I don’t believe for a moment, but the last might just be true. And the oligarchs I talked to’—here for the first time he grinned broadly—‘seem to think it’s a popular democratic plot—also to get rid of you. If everything I’ve heard were true, you’d appear to be a fairly unpopular person.’

  Alcibiades said, disregarding the last remark: ‘And what do you think?’

  ‘Frankly,’ said Axiochus, ‘I don’t know if it’s purely political in a party sense. I’m not sure if it’s aimed at the expedition or you, though I’m pretty certain it’s one or the other. The trouble is, there are far too many people who’ve got good reasons for wanting to do either.’

  ‘Such as Nicias,’ said Alcibiades suddenly, his dream still vivid in his mind.

  ‘That I find hard to believe. Nicias has got good enough cause to try to harm you, and we all know he’s fought against this expedition from the beginning; but of all the things he might do, committing sacrilege is about the most unlikely. His piety’s almost the only genuine thing about him.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Alcibiades slowly. ‘He wouldn’t do it himself—there I agree with you—but he might compound with his conscience enough to let someone else. After all from his point of view it’s a situation requiring desperate measures. And everything else has failed.’ A thought suddenly struck him. ‘Wait a moment,’ he said. He ran back into the house, and came out again with some sheets of paper in his hand.

  ‘My faithful agent,’ he explained. ‘I’d forgotten all about him.’

  Axiochus looked puzzled, and Alcibiades went on: ‘I set him to take a note of everyone who visited Nicias. I haven’t looked at his reports for the last few days. This may prove invaluable.’

  Together they rapidly went down the list. ‘Nothing very interesting here,’ said Alcibiades, then paused. ‘Hullo!’ he muttered; ‘the Corinthian consul. That seems to bear out the Syracusa
n theory . . .’ He rapidly scanned the remaining names. Right at the bottom of the last page he found something else.

  ‘Euphiletus and—Andocides,’ he read out. He bit his lip in vexation. ‘That leaves us in just as much uncertainty as we were before. What are we to do now?’

  ‘Wait,’ said his uncle decisively. ‘Whoever’s behind this will have to show himself eventually, whatever his aim. We can’t fight in the dark. We don’t know yet what we have to deal with, let alone whom. They can’t just leave it at that: they’ll have to follow it up—either with a public accusation or a religious veto. When that happens, we’ll know where we stand. For the time being we must simply go on as if nothing had happened. There’s an Assembly every day now till the fleet sails. You have to attend in any case. If there’s to be an attack, that’s where it’ll come.’

  ‘Have the Assembly . . . taken any steps about this business already?’

  ‘There was an emergency session called early this morning as soon as the news was known. They’ve given the Council full powers to deal with the matter. A commission of inquiry’s been set up. And they’re offering big rewards to informers. Not only that, but they’ve promised immunity to anyone—citizen, foreigner or slave—who denounces any kind of act of impiety whatsoever.’

  ‘Any act of impiety?’ repeated Alcibiades. ‘What do they expect? What does it mean?’

  ‘It may be the next move. I don’t know. But they’re scared, Alcibiades. I’ve never seen men so scared. Scared and outraged.’ His eye wandered back unwillingly to the mutilated column, hideously exposed in the bright morning sunlight. Alcibiades, staring at him, his own mouth dry with an undefined fear, saw the bright beads of sweat standing out on his forehead.

  • • • • •

  The mutilation of the Herms shocked the volatile Athenians as almost nothing else could have done. The War of the Oracles was one thing, a recognised political game, which hardly touched their religious feelings at all: this was quite another. For the first time every man, whether he admitted it or not, felt personal fear: till the guilty were punished, the whole City would lie under the risk of pollution. It seemed indeed as if the Gods had turned their faces against Athens’ ambitions.

  But almost at once this first atavistic reaction gave place to anger—anger all the more intense because of the terror that lay behind it. The bribes offered by the Council brought out the witch-hunters: men plotted to betray their personal enemies, and mistrusted even their closest friends.

  Yet for three days nothing happened to relieve the by now almost hysterical tension. The commission of inquiry sat hour after hour listening to confused and contradictory testimony that amounted to nothing; soothsayers flourished as never before; and despite the uncertainty of the situation, the preparations for the departure of the fleet had to go on.

  • • • • •

  It was in this atmosphere that the Assembly met, for the ninth consecutive day, to deal with more of the tiresome administrative business which had to be straightened out and ratified before the expedition could put to sea. For convenience’ sake the meeting was held, not on the Assembly Hill, but in the biggest shipyard of the Piraeus, where chandlers or master-carpenters could be summoned at a moment’s notice to give expert evidence. It was a beautiful morning: hot, yet with a light breeze that sent the clouds scudding behind the forest of masts in the harbour. The air was fresh and clean, full of the multifarious smells of the port: tar and fish and bread and freshly sawn wood, and the tang of salt mingling with it all. Round them the deputies heard the tramp of feet, the sound of men singing at their work; the clatter of hammers, the rumbling of wheels over the cobbles, the slap and pluck of water against the quayside. In front of them, in the inner basin, fifty freshly-rigged galleys rode at anchor. At least half were new and as yet unhandselled; on many of the others discoloured patches were visible, where the carpenters had skilfully let in new wood to replace the rotten. A long line of bronze beaks, flaming in the sun, stretched away to the mole of the outer harbour.

  All three of the generals-designate were present in their official capacity: but it was Alcibiades who, alert and confident, a sheaf of papers in his hand, answered all questions and controlled the marshalling of the many technical witnesses. Lamachus, who was well content to let this undoubtedly efficient young man take care of the politicians—time enough for him to assert himself when it came to fighting—sat there admiring his new flagship, quite oblivious of what was going on around him.

  Nicias, who for several days had attended in silence, speaking only when directly addressed; and then in the briefest of monosyllables, now seemed unaccountably nervous and excited. His sallow face was flushed; and his gaze continually wandered to a corner of the yard where a group of men stood somewhat apart from the rest, conversing in undertones. Alcibiades, out of the corner of his eye, noted this; and though his voice remained as smooth and unhurried as before, his pulse quickened.

  He had just finished dealing with a complicated query related to provisioning, when a man rose from the centre of the Assembly and requested permission to speak.

  ‘Your name?’ asked the President.

  ‘Pythonicus.’

  ‘Please proceed.’

  Alcibiades did not recognise the name; but, staring hard at the man, he fancied he had seen him somewhere before.

  ‘Men of Athens,’ said Pythonicus, ‘for weeks now you have been putting all your strength into preparing such an expedition as Greece has never known since the days of the Trojan War. You have heard in this Assembly the numbers of troops that will be involved; you can see’—he waved his arm at the galleys—‘something of what you are making yourselves responsible for.’ He turned and faced the three generals. ‘The Gods alone can tell into what dangers you will be sending these men. In this great venture one thing is more vital than any other—that the men you choose as leaders should be not only the best soldiers that Athens can provide but also men of blameless and upright lives: men of honour and probity. If the Gods turn against us, none of our force can prevail.’

  There was a loud buzz of approval at the speaker’s words; the thunder before the gathering storm. Alcibiades sat quite still, waiting for the accusation. But when it came it was not what he had expected.

  Pythonicus addressed the President. ‘It is true, is it not,’ he said, ‘that any man, even a slave, who can lay information as to any act of sacrilege shall be granted immunity?’

  The President nodded. ‘It has been so decreed by the Council,’ he said, with judicial impassivity.

  ‘Thank you. I propose to bring before you all a slave-boy—who is not himself an initiate—to give evidence that a week ago he was present in the house of a Syrian alien, one Pulytion’—Alcibiades started—‘where the General you have elected, Alcibiades, in the company of many others, blasphemously parodied the Mysteries of Eleusis.’

  His words were the one thing needed to release emotions already stretched nearly to breaking-point. Some shouted curses at Alcibiades, as if the matter were already proved; others demanded the immediate production of the witness. The whole gathering was a sea of waving arms and furious, hysterical faces.

  The President rose to his feet. ‘Bring in your slave,’ he said. ‘He shall have the full protection you ask for him.’

  From outside two men appeared and made their way to the front, leading a young boy between them. He could hardly have been more than sixteen. On all sides heads craned to look at him. They must have been waiting with him, thought Alcibiades to himself. It’s all been arranged . . . The blow was so sudden, so completely unexpected, that for the moment his wits were scattered.

  When the boy and his escort stood before the President, the latter said: ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Andromachus.’ His voice half-choked as he spoke, and he blushed and cleared his throat. Alcibiades looked hard at him. Had he been at Pulytion’s house on that night? It was impossible to say. There had been so many and everyone had been more tha
n mildly drunk. But he was scared all right. Hardly surprising in the circumstances.

  The President smiled at him to put him at his ease. ‘You need have no fear,’ he said. ‘No harm will come to you if you tell the truth. I promise you that. Now: whose slave are you?’

  ‘Polemarchus’.’

  Another unknown name, Alcibiades noted. Whoever was behind this had taken good care to conceal himself.

  ‘Do you swear by the Gods to faithfully relate all you know concerning this matter?’

  ‘I swear it.’

  ‘Then speak.’

  ‘I . . . I . . . There’s little I can say, sir. I went to Pulytion’s House.’

  ‘What for?’

  The boy blushed, and a titter ran through the Assembly. Pulytion’s inclinations were well known.