Achilles His Armour

by Peter Green

  Axiochus ran his eye over the list. But before he could speak Alcibiades went on impulsively: ‘Property. Land. Every single one of them’s a rich landowner. I know Euphiletus by reputation. He’s got two town houses and three big estates in the country. Pherecles owns hundreds of acres in Acharnae. Doesn’t it make sense? They’ve got nothing against me personally—but they’d do anything to stop war breaking out again.’

  ‘I believe you’re right,’ said Axiochus. Then a thought struck him and he added: ‘And Euphiletus saw Nicias recently. This is the sort of thing Nicias might conceivably have condoned. Don’t forget he’s got property outside the City too. Silver mines. Yes, I fancy for once cupidity has defeated piety in our estimable General’s mind.’

  ‘Uncle, I’m a fool,’ said Alcibiades miserably. ‘I should have seen this coming long ago, but I wouldn’t listen to advice. You were only the first. Pulytion told me everything—and I still did nothing . . .’

  ‘When did Pulytion talk to you?’ asked Axiochus. ‘That night when you told us about Sicily—after we all left?’

  Alcibiades nodded. Then he said: ‘If I thought I could, I’d try to get the trial decision reversed. This evidence is all in my favour. But with the Assembly in its present mood, and Androcles and Nicias between them ready to block every move I make, it’s hopeless. And for all I know this may not be the last denunciation. Offering money invites informers. By tomorrow we may be back where we were again. No, I shall have to go. After all’—he smiled—‘it’s what I’ve always wanted, isn’t it? And if we’re successful, things may look very different by the time I come back.’

  Axiochus said: ‘I’ll keep you posted of events at home. There’s one thing we might do before then. It’s a long chance, and it may be wrong. But if we could see Euphiletus and get a statement out of him, it might make all the difference . . .’

  Half an hour later they were knocking at the doors of the State prison. It was not until the surly gaoler they talked to had pocketed a phenomenally large bribe that he told them Euphiletus had been executed two hours before.

  • • • • •

  There were still two days to go before the fleet sailed. Teucer’s denunciation, and the executions which followed it, had done much to lighten the somewhat oppressive atmosphere: now that at last the long-awaited dream was turning into reality, there was almost a holiday feeling in the air, the breathless excitement of immediate expectation. Alcibiades could not but be affected by it. Nearly all the preliminary work was done, and done well; and he had been almost entirely responsible. The fleet, warships and transports alike, was now complete, rigged and ready, stores aboard, only waiting the order to slip anchor. The troops and sailors were at stand-by.

  He was sitting alone in the littered War Department office, elated and depressed at once, when his thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door. Wearily he prepared himself for some lastminute hitch, some administrative problem a subordinate was too scared to deal with himself Anything to distract his mind. But when his visitor came in, Alcibiades sprang up with a shout of welcome and flung his arms round him.

  ‘Antiochus!’ he exclaimed. ‘Where have you sprung from? By the Gods, it’s good to see a face you know you can trust.’

  Antiochus dropped into a chair, stretched out his arms and laughed, displaying startlingly white teeth in his burnt and blackened face. Since their first chance meeting ten years before the two men had kept up an intermittent but warm friendship. Antiochus only came to Athens rarely; most often he was at sea with the merchant ships, running between the harbours of Greece and Asia, cheerfully indifferent to the war. But every now and then he would turn up at the Piraeus between voyages, his pockets full of gold; and then he would seek out Alcibiades, and the two of them would drink and talk into the small hours.

  Alcibiades called out to the guard in the passage to send for wine; and when it was brought he pushed the goblets aside and gave the flask to Antiochus, who without a word knocked off the neck and took a long pull from it. Then he wiped his hand across his mouth and passed the flask across the table. Alcibiades grinned and poured out a measure into a cup.

  ‘I hear you’re in some trouble,’ said Antiochus bluntly.

  ‘Who told you?‘

  ‘Who told me . . . Don’t be stupid, man. It’s common talk. I heard rumours of it earlier. We travellers are always the first to get the news, you know. I know this Androcles. He’s a dangerous man. You’ll be better off in Sicily than Athens at the moment.’

  ‘Possibly. And when I get back?’

  ‘Depends what you bring back with you. That’s what I really came to see you about.’

  ‘Oh? This isn’t a business venture, you know.’

  ‘Pulytion seemed to think it was.’

  ‘Pulytion? Where did you see him? Where is he?’

  ‘Easy, now. One thing at a time. I saw him here three days ago. I shipped him over to Euboea by night. Odd how I always seem to be getting him out of trouble. You remember the first time I met him with you? Well, I didn’t tell you then, but I’d got him out of Syria when there was a price on his head. Murder . . .’

  ‘I never knew about that.’

  ‘No. It’s not what one talks about normally, is it? At a guess, I should say Pulytion is now on his way to one of the islands. Lesbos or Chios. He’s very wise, I think. But before he left me he told me a good deal about this expedition. It interested me . . . Tell me, Alcibiades: do you want a good steersman for your flagship?’

  Alcibiades put down his wine in surprise. ‘I thought you weren’t interested in war. I can’t imagine you serving with the fleet.’

  ‘On this occasion I fancy there might be compensations.’ Antiochus grinned. ‘And besides,’ he went on more seriously, ‘if all I’ve heard’s true, you’re going to need all the friends you can get before you’ve finished. And your own ship’s the best place to start.’

  ‘That’s true enough. I’ve picked the crew myself. And I’ve got Adeimantus—you remember him?—as my second-in-command.’

  He looked at Antiochus thoughtfully. ‘I think there might be a vacancy for a steersman,’ he said. He smiled and stretched out his hand. Antiochus grasped it as he might have grasped the steering-oar of his ship; his palm was hard and calloused, and the grip of his fingers made Alcibiades, who was no weakling, wince involuntarily. They both burst out laughing.

  Then Antiochus said, after another lengthy pull at the swag-bellied flask, ‘I suppose you know you’re not the only one in danger? I strongly advise you to get everyone connected with you out of Athens somehow, even if they’re not coming with you to Sicily—’

  ‘I can’t do that. It’s what Androcles wants. It’s a confession of guilt.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Antiochus. ‘I don’t understand politics. I’m only a sailor. But I know this: if your friends don’t get out soon, they won’t be alive when you come back. The people here have a great talent for changing their minds. Men can come back from exile when the time’s ripe. A confession of guilt doesn’t always lead to execution of sentence if you make the right moves. But you can’t play with dead men.’

  ‘In any case,’ said Alcibiades wearily, ‘I doubt if I shall have any control over their actions.’ He was suddenly immensely tired; whether from the wine, or the heat, or Antiochus’ words, or his own thoughts he was uncertain. For the first time he realised what a risk his uncle would be running in order to keep him in touch with events in the City. He felt ashamed for not having given it a thought before.

  ‘And incidentally,’ Antiochus was saying, ‘what arrangements have you made about your own property—your house, and slaves, and so on?’

  Alcibiades, focusing his eyes with difficulty, his weary brain desperately struggling to understand, said: ‘My house . .? What should I do with my house . . .?’

  Antiochus glanced sharply at him. Dead beat. He said gently: ‘It’s no use blinding yourself to unpleasant possibilities. If you don’t realise what’s left of your es
tate before you go, your enemies may very well later. Supposing you were declared an enemy of the State. Your goods would be confiscated. What’s the point of throwing money away? The Gods know you may need it.’

  Alcibiades pulled himself together. He stood up; and took a turn round the room, his hands locked behind his back. Finally he said: ‘But if I sell up what’s left of my property before I go, what conclusion do you imagine everyone’ll draw?’

  ‘That you’re going to desert,’ said Antiochus bluntly, in his coarse voice. The ugly word left a silence behind it. He went on, apparently unaware of having said anything out of the ordinary: ‘No one need know. I can act as intermediary. I know pretty well what you’re worth at the moment’ (Pulytion again, thought Alcibiades) ‘and certain friends of mine are willing to advance you two talents in gold if you will provide them with a written deed of sale, to be implemented by an agent of your own choice after your departure. The whole thing can be done very discreetly. There will be no public removal of goods. You can call it an investment on my pad, if you like. The house and your slaves will be left untouched. That reminds me, though. What provision are you making for your son?’

  For a long time Alcibiades made no reply: he sat quite still, leaning his chin on his hand, staring into space. His son . . . He saw with horrible clarity the swarthy, monstrous-headed creature, with its dark eyes that seemed to be filled with hate for everything it saw. Silent, brooding, seemingly centuries old. It never cried nor complained; yet the nurses were afraid of it. Afraid of an infant hardly a year old. He did not dare to rebuke them for their whispered old-wives’ tales about the taint of degeneracy and madness that ran in its blood; he knew his own inbred strain only too well. He remembered his brother, blindly tearing a bird to pieces, covered in blood; and Pericles’ two loutish and half-licked sons, mercifully dead of the plague. The thought he had had after Androcles’ attack on him in the Assembly came back with redoubled meaning. This is our last chance, he told himself. Our breeding power is finished. Another strain will wrest the power from us—the strain that bred Cleon, Hyperbolus, Androcles; even this coarse sailor who calls himself my friend. The last gamble against circumstances.

  He drew himself up and said to Antiochus, lightly and calmly: ‘I accept your offer. I am deeply grateful to you. As for my son—’ by only the slightest tremor did his voice betray his emotions—‘I shall leave him here, with ample provision for his upbringing. If what you fear should come to pass, he would become the charge of the State. Despite your fears, I have no doubt that the State will honour its obligation. One thing more. I do not know, nor do I wish to know, your inner opinion of my motives in this expedition. But if you wish to serve with me, there will be no more talk of desertion. I could have had the tyranny here if I had wished. You, who, are so well-informed, should know that. Strange as it may seem to you, I respect the laws and institutions of my country. More than that, I love her.’ He rubbed a hand across his forehead, and gave the ghost of a smile. ‘I must apologise,’ he said. ‘I’ve been talking like an orator . . .’ He finished the last of his wine. ‘Come and see your ship.’

  The two men went slowly out together, each thinking his own thoughts. But neither wished, or even dared, to put them into words.

  • • • • •

  The night before the fleet was due to sail a last meeting of the Council was held, in secret this time, and the aims and limits of the expedition were finally hammered out and agreed upon. Nicias fought every point; but in the end the Council, after four hours of wrangling and disagreement, set the official seal of its approval on the conquest of Sicily, the enslavement of Syracuse, and the imposition of heavy tribute-quotas on the remaining cities of the island. Of Alcibiades’ great schemes over and beyond this there was no mention. He was grateful enough to have got so much. But it was clear now that, whatever happened, Nicias would prove as great an enemy as the Sicilians themselves. It was with an ironical smile that Alcibiades received the solemn command of the Council to prepare his vessel with as much magnificence as he could afford in order to set a good example to the rest of the fleet.

  • • • • •

  Dawn was breaking when the first contingents began to march down to the Piraeus by the Dipylon Gate; and the tramp of their feet aroused all in the City who were not already up and eager to see the assembly and departure of the Great Fleet. By the time it was light almost the whole of the population had flocked down to watch, leaving the City deserted and silent. Huge crowds swanned into the narrow streets of the port, thronging the wharves, climbing up to roof-tops, filling every available inch of space save that held open by the Thracian guards for the passage and embarkation of the troops. Many families walked alongside the columns, cheering to sons or brothers or husbands. The air was full of excited chatter, the ring of nailed boots on the cobbles, the quiet weeping of women.

  It seemed as if the procession would be endless. First came the archers and targeteers in their leather caps and jerkins, bows and quivers over their shoulders, moving with the loose undisciplined stride of the mountaineer. Then followed the allied troops: men of Argos and Mantinea, the rising sun shining through the haze to glint on their polished bronze armour and nodding plumes. Last, riding at the head of their heavy-armed troops, came the three Athenian generals. Nicias, his face yellow and ill, his body bent under the weight of his armour, provoked little enthusiasm; there was a ragged cheer for old Lamachus, mingled with some good-humoured laughter at his wine-red face and pot-belly. But Alcibiades stirred up an ovation that could be heard five miles away by the few women and slaves who still remained in the City. In this supreme moment all his previous crimes and stupidities were forgotten: the cheering multitudes saw only a handsome and brilliant man going out to war. He carried his helmet at his saddle-bow, and his yellow hair gleamed against the scarlet of his cloak, the glittering gold with which his armour was richly decorated. Scarlet, too, were the trappings of the great black stallion he rode; one of those—as many who saw him remembered—with which he had driven to unparalleled victory in the Olympic Games a year before. Every now and then he turned in the saddle to wave; and the cheering and laughter redoubled in volume. This was his moment of triumph, these thundering cheers the vindication of all he had ever done. Flushed and elated, he rode slowly out to where the sea-wind blew in his face from the bay, and the fleet lay ready for his coming.

  As if to greet him, the morning mist shredded away, leaving the sun shining down from a blue and cloudless sky. Thick over the harbour, as far as the eye could reach, the triremes lay at anchor, each with its richly worked pennant fluttering from the bows. Already many of the troops were aboard, and their armour, catching the light, dazzled the eyes of those who stood watching. All round the shore stood priests and private citizens together, with gold cups, and silver censers and mixing-bowls, ready to pour their libations and offer up their prayers for the success of the venture. The breeze blew strong and steady towards the west. Gods and men seemed to be waiting together to salute their departure.

  His flagship was anchored in the place of honour, at the central berth beside the quay in front of him. As he dismounted and strode forward, his cloak heavy about his shoulders, his left hand grasping the sword-hilt at his side, the crew rose to attention to welcome him. He saw Antiochus at his place by the helm, and Adeimantus standing alone, high on the quarter-deck, and smiled to himself. Then, as he approached the gangway, Axiochus came forward out of the crowd and stood beside him. The two men looked at one another without speaking. Alcibiades had seen his uncle after the final meeting of the Council, and told him of Antiochus’ suggestions. They had talked till late into the night; and now there seemed little left to say.

  ‘What I can do, that I promise to do faithfully,’ said Axiochus. ‘I shall be your eyes here while you are gone.’ The two men’s eyes met. ‘Goodbye, Alcibiades. And the Gods go with you.’

  Alcibiades grasped Axiochus’ hand. Then, quickly, he was gone. Axiochus, his heart bea
ting, watched him run up the gangplank, and take his place beside Adeimantus.

  When all were aboard, a sudden hush fell on the crowd. Then, from somewhere out of sight, the thin clear note of a trumpet rang out over the harbour. As it died away, the only sound to be heard was the lapping of the water against the stones. From Nicias’ flagship a herald’s voice followed, calling upon them all, troops and spectators alike, to pray for victory and safe return. It was as if now, at last, Athens had found the unity she had lacked for so long. Here were no individual offerings, ship by ship, no private prayer for the safety of lover or friend: thousands of voices rose together, a great diapason of sound, and all together the wine was poured from bowl or chalice, to stain the waters of the harbour or trickle away among the stones at the sea’s edge. Soldiers and captains, mourning women and proud veteran fathers, all were drawn into a common alliance by one simple act of faith; and their voices were swelled by many others, aliens and strangers as well, who owed them nothing, and yet were stirred to wish them well.

  When the final hymn had been sung, the anchor-stones came up dripping, showers of liquid sparks in the sunlight; and then the orders rang out and the white or red sails were hoisted, and with slow creaking of sweeps the fleet began to move out of the harbour into the bay. Watchers on the heights of Lycabettus and the cliffs towards Salamis saw them form up in column, slips of colour on the blue expanse; and then the sails bellied out, the white foam curled away beneath the gilded figure-heads, and they were away, their pennants flying, racing to the south, to round the treacherous cape of Malea and begin the long voyage up the west coast to Corcyra, where the last of the allies would join them.

  When they were out of sight, dipping over the horizon away from the sun, the crowds slowly dispersed, saying nothing, returning to a depleted city that seemed almost asleep. The arsenals and dockyards were empty, the chatter in the taverns was stilled; all the hope of Athens, the pride of her fleet, the finest of her youth, were on the seas, sailing away to the greatest venture of her history. It seemed to be only a husk of unreality that was left behind.