by Peter Green
‘Next day his entire statement was shown up as a pack of lies. Your friend Andocides (an unpleasant character, but he has his uses) was persuaded by one of his fellow-prisoners to tell the truth—or what certainly confirms our opinion of it. He backed up Teucer’s statement, though he did add four new names to the list. According to him it was Euphiletus and his society after all: the landowners, as you said originally. He solved one little mystery, by the way: you remember that the Herm outside his house was the only one not touched? He said this was because he’d had a bad fall the day before and had been confined to his bed as a result. It seems to me much more likely that he took fright at the last minute; but the Council gave him the benefit of the doubt. They had Diocleides brought before them and cross-examined him. He broke down almost at once. For one thing, he’d been careless enough to say that he’d recognised the conspirators by the light of the full moon; and as you and. I know very well (and so did they) there was no moon that night at all. He confessed that he’d seen nothing, that his whole statement was false, and that he’d been persuaded to make it on the instigation of two other people. They condemned and executed him at once, and released the men he’d accused.
‘You’re probably asking yourself where the danger for you in all this lies. That’s where the irony comes in. The mystery of the Herms has been solved, true enough: but it left a rather nasty legacy behind. The two men who egged Diocleides on to his singularly stupid action are known. One of them was a man called Amiantus. I don’t care about him. But the other was your cousin Alcibiades from Phegous. Observe the immediate inference. Everyone immediately concluded that you were ultimately responsible. I know very well you weren’t; but I can’t prove it. I doubt if you’ve seen your cousin more than a dozen times in the last ten years. The whole thing led me to reflect on the futility and embarrassment of family loyalty. I have no doubt that the fool thought it was the best thing he could do to help you and congratulated himself on having worked out so shrewd a scheme. The result, of course, was that you lost none of your old enemies, and gained some very influential new ones. The aristocracy were suspicious of you before, I agree; but only in a neutral way. As soon as the motives behind Diocleides’ plot were revealed they changed their tune very quickly. And who can blame them? After all, about thirty of them had very narrowly escaped being executed, as they thought, to save your skin.
‘The next move was pretty obvious. The affair of the Herms was wound up, but the profanation of the Mysteries was still outstanding. Do you recall Agariste, who used to be the wife of Pericles’ music-teacher Damon? A very superior old lady: I suppose they picked her because they thought she’d be above suspicion. She came before the Council and not only renewed the charge of profanation against you, but implicated Adeimantus and myself as well. This time she didn’t place it in Pulytion’s house but yours. She’s an initiate, of course, so nobody now believes the truth (even supposing they ever did); and with two separate accusations relating to different houses, it can’t even be written off as a mere drunken frolic.
‘Observe the trick that Fortune has played on us. The matter of the Herms has been settled, and the profanation of the Mysteries had been largely forgotten—except, of course, by Androcles. (I rather suspect it was he who spread the rumour of a Spartan and Boeotian attack.) And then, solely through a misguided attempt to help you, not only Androcles but the whole City, aristocrats and all, are out for your blood: on a false charge, and for totally mistaken reasons, even from their own, viewpoint. I hope that this will at least provide you the amusement which it did me, and which to some degree consoles me for the thought of exile. It certainly confirms all you have ever said about our famous democracy.
‘If you decide to leave Sicily, you will find me in Argos.’
Nothing else; not even a formal expression of good wishes.
Alcibiades looked up and saw Adeimantus in the doorway. Without a word he gave him the letter. Adeimantus read it through carefully and then said: ‘What are you going to do?’
‘What can I do?’ Alcibiades’ face was strained and angry; it was only with an immense effort that he kept his voice under control. ‘Axiochus is right. If we go back to Athens we’re condemning ourselves to death.’
‘And if we don’t?’
Alcibiades looked at his old friend steadily. ‘You know the answer to that as well as I do.’
There was a silence. Then Adeimantus said: ‘There’s no chance that the troops would support you . . . ?’ But he realised the futility of the suggestion as soon as he had made it.
‘Don’t be a fool, Adeimantus. They’re very near mutiny. What have we got to show for the two months we’ve been here? Nothing but indecision, cowardice almost. The whole army’ll watch me go and not lift a finger.’
‘Then you’ve made up your mind?’
‘Yes,’ said Alcibiades. He stood twisting the letter in his fingers. ‘Yes, I’ve made up my mind.’
‘I shall come with you.’
‘You won’t have the choice. Nor will many others.’
‘But . . . you will escape?’
‘If I can. Think well what it will mean before you promise to join me.’
‘I have thought of that already.’
‘Have you?’ Alcibiades gave him a mocking smile. Then he said: ‘Go now. Tell Nicias I shall see the commissioners immediately. The ship is ready for sea. We shall sail whenever they give the word. And see Antiochus. He is under no obligation to sail with me on this journey. I can get another steersman—’
‘I have seen him. He is coming with us.’
‘I expected nothing else.’
Adeimantus hesitated for a moment, then abruptly went out.
Now it has come, thought Alcibiades when he was alone, now it has come I have no hesitation. It is the greatest decision I have had to make, and my mind is already sure. But I shall return to Athens. Sooner or later I shall return, and when that day comes I shall break every man who has betrayed me. Whatever I do now, it is them I am fighting. Not Athens. Never Athens. All I ask of Athens is justice; and that has been denied me.
With firm steps he descended once more to the harbour to meet Nicias and the government’s commissioners.
• • • • •
If the commissioners were surprised at the readiness with which Alcibiades and those accused with him left Sicily and followed them on the homeward voyage, they did not show it. For two days the Salaminia, with Alcibiades’ flagship close behind it, sailed in a leisurely fashion round the heel of Italy and up into the Bay of Tarentum. On the evening of the third day they put in at the port of Thurii for the night, and a strong guard was set on the quayside to prevent any of the prisoners attempting to go ashore. But the guards were careless; at all events they took no action when Alcibiades, Adeimantus and Antiochus slipped quietly overboard on the seaward side and swam away into the darkness. It was not till the commissioners paid their routine visit aboard (after a pleasant evening in the town) that it was discovered that their chief prisoners were missing. The unfortunate guards were promptly clapped in irons; but this did little to mend matters. The next morning, with the assistance of the town authorities, an extensive search was made, but without success. The commissioners lingered for a further twenty-four hours, not sure what to do; then, seeing their task was hopeless, they set sail for home, taking their remaining prisoners with them.
From the shelter of a thick wood on a promontory overlooking the bay Alcibiades and his two companions watched them go.
‘And now? asked Adeimantus.
‘Now,’ said Alcibiades, not looking at him, ‘the time has come for us to part company.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘There are several good reasons. For one thing, if we separate there is less chance of our being captured. For another, it’s not fair that you should be implicated in what concerns me alone.’
‘But—’
‘Don’t argue with me. My mind is made up. Go somewhere where you
’ll be safe—Locri or Thessaly or one of the islands—and wait till affairs at Athens have quietened down. After that you should be able to return to the City without fear. Besides, I shall need you both in the future. How or when, I don’t know yet. But the time will come. Till then, you’ll be doing me a better service by keeping out of harm’s way.’
‘I can’t leave you now.’
‘You’re very thick-headed, Adeimantus.’ He spoke in a gentle, affectionate voice. ‘For once I fancy that Antiochus is wiser than you.’
The big seacaptain sat staring out to sea, his back towards them. At this he said, without turning round, ‘Leave him alone, Adeimantus. It’s no use.’
Adeimantus gave a despairing gesture. ‘At least tell me what you’re going to do.’
Alcibiades said: ‘I have a debt to settle with my countrymen.’ His face was composed and expressionless.
Antiochus rose to his feet, and stretched out his hand to Adeimantus. ‘It’s time we were moving,’ he said.
Adeimantus got up, still staring at Alcibiades, horror now in his face. He began to say: ‘You can’t—’ and then his voice broke off. Alcibiades did not move. He heard his two companions walking slowly away through the thick undergrowth. In a little while he was alone, his eyes still on the two ships that were now nearly hull-down over the horizon. He remained there all day.
When it was dark he went down quietly to the harbour, his face shadowed in the hood of his cloak, the gold he had gained from the sale of his property in a leather bag at his waist. After some inquiry he found a small merchant vessel that was sailing with the morning tide. The captain saw the gold and asked no questions; he was a discreet man, and greatly addicted to smuggling. In the ghostly half-light before the dawn the vessel drew out of the harbour of Thurii, with Alcibiades aboard, and set a course eastward towards the Peloponnese. Only a few fishermen, returning weary-eyed after their night’s work, saw her go.
Part Three
The Hunted
(413–404 b.c.)
Dionysus: First, what do each of you think should be done about Alcibiades? The City is in sore straits.
Euripides: What does the City think about him herself?
Dionysus: She loves and hates him in the same breath: but most of all she wants him back.
aristophanes, The Frogs
Chapter 28
Riding into Argos in the late evening, with the first lamps pricking out in the clear still autumn air, Alcibiades remembered that this town had seen some of his most notable triumphs; he knew it as he knew Athens, and many men here were his friends. Now all was subtly changed. Here and there people recognised him as he passed, looking up from their wine or their draughts outside the tavern; but they gave no sign of welcome or recognition. He saw startled expressions of fear or mistrust; the air behind him seemed alive with whispering.
It was thus that he met Axiochus, in a deserted street near the market. His uncle stepped up and tugged at his bridle. Without a word of greeting he said: ‘You shouldn’t be seen on the streets. Come with me. I have a quiet room in an inn close by.’
Alcibiades dismounted and walked beside him, leading his horse.
‘An inn? Have we so lost credit with our friends here that we have to resort to a common inn?’
Axiochus glanced at his nephew, taking in the worn, travel-stained face, the twitching, nervous gestures. He said: ‘At the moment you, at any rate, have few friends in Argos.’
In silence they made their way up a quiet back-street and stopped outside a low, whitewashed house.
A stable-boy took Alcibiades’ horse, and they both went in. The innkeeper eyed Alcibiades sharply, but made no comment. Axiochus ordered supper and another bed for his guest. A slave-boy brought them wine and a lamp. Alcibiades, stretching his legs at the rough wooden table, suddenly realised he was both tired and hungry. He poured out a measure of wine and drank deeply. Axiochus watched him, his lined, yellowish face as impassive as ever.
‘I wasn’t really surprised to see you,’ he said at length. ‘Certain rumours reached Athens that the great expedition was not exactly the success it was supposed to be. Did you get my letter, by the way?’
Alcibiades nodded.
‘Good. I hope you appreciated it. Your first impulse was to go straight to Sparta.’ He looked squarely at his nephew, and seemed satisfied by what he saw. ‘You then realised that there might be certain difficulties in that. So you came to me.’ He drank slowly, as if putting off something which promised to be both distasteful and difficult.
‘One thing there can be no doubt about,’ he said at length. ‘It is quite impossible for you to go back to Athens. It would have been dangerous before. But now— The news reached Argos today. You have been condemned to death in your absence. All your property that was not disposed of already has been confiscated. And—’ he hesitated—‘every priest and priestess in Athens has been ordered to curse you. They all obeyed except one. The priestess Theano. A brave woman. She said she was a praying priestess, not a cursing one.’
Alcibiades’ indecision shrivelled up in a sudden flame of fury. ‘I shall show them I am still alive.’
‘Excellent,’ said a rough voice from the doorway.
Alcibiades sprang up in amazement. Cheerful and slightly drunk, Antiochus strode over and sat himself down at the table. The bench creaked under his vast weight. He called hoarsely for a flask, knocked the neck off in his usual way, and set it to his lips.
Axiochus said, with a certain wry melancholy: ‘I ought to confess that my deductions as to your movements received some confirmation yesterday from our friend.’
‘I told him you’d come here,’ said Antiochus. His blunt matter-of-factness dispelled the strained atmosphere as if by magic. ‘No use in going to Sparta without credentials. You’re not that big a fool.’ The tattooed snakes on his bare chest heaved as he laughed. ‘I’m a sailor and a merchant,’ he observed, smacking his lips. ‘I don’t sell myself in a poor market, and I’m not interested in any political nonsense about patriotism. Consequently I’m clearly the right person to look after you. If you were left to yourself you’d be dead in a week.’
Alcibiades stammered: ‘What about Adeimantus . . .?’
‘He’s a brave man,’ said Antiochus. ‘He’s also nearly as big a fool as you. He went back to Athens.’
‘You let him?’
‘I couldn’t stop him. And somebody had to go. We can’t depend entirely on rumour for our information. Athens is a large city. If he’s careful no harm will come to him.’
Alcibiades looked at his uncle as if for guidance. But Axiochus remained silent, his face grimly averted. Antiochus went on: ‘Come, man. This is hardly the time to be squeamish. If you want to get back to Athens there’s only one way to do it. You know that as well as I do. Make them so afraid of you that they’ll beg for you on your own terms. I’m no strategist. You are. The Ephors at Sparta would give anything for your advice—’
Alcibiades rose to his feet. ‘Watch your tongue,’ he said thickly.
‘Am I the only man here with an honest tongue in his head?’ asked Antiochus. ‘I’m only saying what you’ve been thinking for weeks. There’s been a trumped-up trial against you, you’ve been unjustly condemned to death, the fools in the City have ruined any chance you had of victory in Sicily and turned you into a common outlaw—and you sit there choked by your own conscience. There’s no sense in it.’
There was complete silence when Antiochus had finished speaking. Alcibiades looked from one to the other; neither of them said a word. At this moment the final choice lay entirely in his hands. He rose and walked slowly round the low room, head bent. Antiochus watched every move he made.
Two slaves came in and began to set out supper on the table. It was not till the first course was being brought in that Alcibiades said, in his old voice, ‘Get me pen and paper.’ When they were brought, he sat down and wrote a long letter to the Spartan Ephor Endius.
• • • • •
>
‘I have no doubt that you will remember,’ read Endius, frowning, ‘not only the ties of relationship which bind our families together, but also those other services which I have had the honour to do you in the past . . .’ He put down the letter, walked to the door, and looked out cautiously. The first rain of the year had fallen an hour ago, in a swift torrential storm that had turned the dusty road to a river of mud.
There was no one in sight. But that meant nothing. Many people must know that Endius had received a letter from Argos. Not a few would guess shrewdly from whom it came. And not even his position as an Ephor would protect him from the tongues of his enemies if its contents became known to his colleagues before he told them himself. Alcibiades had put him in a very awkward position; it was not beyond the bounds of possibility that the wily Athenian had written another letter to the King at the same time, to drive a wedge yet deeper into the already uneasy relations between the Ephorate and the royal house.
He studied the letter again. The bait was there for all of them. ‘You will realise that in my somewhat unique position I can give the Spartan government information which may be of very material use to them both for the immediate future and in the event of hostilities being resumed. Nevertheless, in view of past actions of mine—actions which it was inevitable that I should take in the circumstances—you will agree that it is essential for me to have a safe-conduct if I am to come to Sparta . . .’
He stood a moment in thought. Then he clapped his hands. A Helot came running from the slaves’ quarters and stood submissively in front of him. ‘You will go to the houses of my four colleagues,’ said Endius, ‘and tell them I have information of considerable importance for them. I would be glad if they could call on me at once.’ The Helot bowed and withdrew. Endius began to walk nervously up and down the low room, stooping a little below the rough beams which supported the ceiling. There can be no harm in his coming, he thought. It may be true. He may be genuinely anxious to help us. From what one hears he has little cause today to be grateful to his countrymen. We can catch him while his fury is still hot. And if it is a trick—his expression hardened—he comes unarmed and alone, with a single companion. He is in our hands. There should be no difficulty about his safe-conduct. And if on my recommendation he does good service to Sparta, I may earn more than his gratitude.
