Achilles His Armour

by Peter Green

  When the meeting was breaking up, he was hailed by Endius. The two of them walked together across the bridge.

  ‘I offer you my congratulations,’ said the Ephor. He moved awkwardly, his tall gaunt figure looking oddly out of place in the bright autumn sunlight. He leaned over the rail of the bridge and, looked down at the water hissing and chuckling past the green corroded wooden piles. ‘I shouldn’t be too premature in your satisfaction, though,’ he went on. ‘You made a good speech—an excellent speech. No Athenian rhetoric.’ He gave one of his rare smiles. ‘Your proposals, with which, as you know, I find myself in complete agreement, have been ratified. But no time limit has been set for their execution. There will be delay—endless delay. You must be patient. For all your excuses, my colleagues don’t trust you yet. Neither does the King. You have made as good an impression as you could. But it’s not enough. Perhaps you hoped for an active part in the execution of your plans—’

  ‘No,’ said Alcibiades; ‘no, I’m not sure I want that.’ He picked up a pebble and balanced it meditatively in his hand. It was black and rounded, veined with red. Like Sparta itself; he thought.

  ‘Your choice is a wise one. I counsel you to wait. There is nothing else you can do now.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Alcibiades. There was a faint smile on his face; but Endius thought he had never seen him look so tired and old.

  ‘There is nothing else I can do,’ repeated Alcibiades dully. With a jerk of his wrist he tossed the pebble into the water. The ripples spread outwards, expanding and interlacing till they reached the bank; then they were wiped away by the swiftly flowing current.

  ‘I will be as patient as I can,’ he said.

  Chapter 29

  When spring came round again, the cavalry for which Nicias had written home arrived in Sicily; two hundred and fifty horsemen, and with them not only thirty mounted archers, but also three hundred silver talents for pay. There was no excuse now for inactivity, and Nicias sailed against Syracuse.

  Once he moved, he moved intelligently and with speed. While the Syracusans were manning the harbour, he landed his whole force half a mile down the coast, and rushed the heights of Epipolae behind their backs, leaving a small party to build a stockade round the ships. An attack from the town was beaten off; and next day the Syracusans observed that this highly unpredictable Athenian general was building a fort to overlook their defences. During the afternoon, to make matters worse, a large body of cavalry from Segesta succeeded in joining him; and within twenty-four hours his engineers, with incredible speed and energy, began the construction of a wall that bid fair to cut off the whole city.

  There followed a bewildering series of attacks and counterattacks. The Syracusans failed in a direct attempt to defeat the building of the wall, and set about one of their own to intercept it. Nicias and Lamachus, for the first time in the campaign thoroughly enjoying themselves, sent a strong detachment out against them, and stopped the new wall almost before it was begun. Then, for good measure, they severed the pipe-lines which carried all drinking water into the city.

  That night the Athenian officers drank long and deep in celebration; and even Nicias, flushed with success, joined them. But after an hour or two he went very white and had to be helped to bed. The kidney disease that had for so long lain dormant now broke out and laid him on his back in agony. Sweating and groaning through the small hours, he cursed himself for his impiety in ever consenting to lead this doomed expedition. As he writhed on the hard camp-bed in his stifling tent, he felt that the Gods had reached out from heaven and struck him down.

  • • • • •

  Half-asleep still, he heard the sounds of battle and pursuit from the marshy valley far below. He opened his eyes, blinked in pain. Bright sunlight was streaming in through the flaps of the tent. It must be nearly midday. He sat tip, and a wave of nausea struck him. The shouting grew louder. He called weakly for his servant. The man came running in, a frightened expression on his face.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Nicias, desperate, tried to pull himself together. He felt sick and faint.

  ‘We attacked an hour ago, General . . . Everything went well at first. Then their cavalry turned our flank. They’re sending a force against us here, now. All our men are engaged in the march. There’s only camp-followers left up here. The stores will be lost—we shall be cut off—’

  ‘Be quiet, you fool.’ Nicias staggered to his feet and wrapped a cloak about him. He went out into the sunlight, coughing and sweating. The light lanced into his eyes; his brain swam dizzily.

  The Syracusans were streaming up the, hill towards them; they could not be more than two hundred yards away. Nicias looked round quickly. Scattered in front of the fortifications were piles of faggots, brushwood, baulks of timber, that the engineers had collected to bridge the swamp.

  ‘Get torches,’ he said thickly to his servant. ‘Call all the help you can. Set fire to the timber. Pour pitch on to get the fire going quickly. Hurry, man!’

  He felt his strength ebbing rapidly, and stumbled back to his tent, where he fell across the bed. I can do no more, he thought. If they take me now, I should almost be glad. Through the ringing in his ears he heard hoarse shouts, running feet. Then came a crackling roar; the fires had been lit. It grew steadily stronger, drowning every other sound. Weakly, blinking away tears of pain from his eyes, Nicias began to vomit. A trickle of dark blood ran down the corner of his mouth. Then he lost consciousness.

  Outside the Syracusans, seeing the ring of flames leaping up against them, hesitated, halted, and finally gave up the attack. It was not till nightfall that Nicias woke again and learnt of this; learnt, too, that Lamachus, in a desperate effort to rally his men, had been cut off in the marsh by the Syracusan cavalry and killed in single combat. With a shrinking fear he realised that the fate of the entire expedition now lay in his hands.

  His head bowed, his scanty white hair falling about his face, he began to cough as though he would never stop.

  • • • • •

  The shrine of the Goddess, Artemis Orthia, stood at the edge of marshy land by the river. It was a poor affair compared with any Athenian temple: built clumsily of wood, and not even painted. In front of it was a levelled space, trodden flat with countless feet; and in the centre of this space, a plain stone altar. Set in the earth close to the altar were several stout posts, with what looked like shackles attached to them. A group of grizzled Spartan officers stood together outside the shrine, conversing in undertones. Each one carried a short whip of rawhide. Occasionally they glanced at the vast concourse of spectators who had assembled in the meadow, and now stood, forming a great semicircle round the sacred ground of the altar. By themselves, drawn up in military formation under their officers, were the corps of youths—some hundreds in all—who had just finished their military training, and for whom today would provide their last and greatest ordeal before they were accepted as men. They were naked except for scanty loin-cloths, their supple young bronzed bodies gleaming in the spring sunlight. Their faces were impassive: they stood firmly at attention. Only an occasional nervous swallowing, a snapping of dark eyelids, betrayed the strain they were undergoing.

  Alcibiades stood with Agis, Timaea, and Endius in a place of honour at the front of the crowd. He noticed to his surprise that there were not only as many women as men present, but almost more visiting foreigners than Spartans. He mentioned this to the King.

  ‘You have a reputation for keeping foreigners out of Sparta,’ he observed. ‘Why admit them for this one occasion?’

  ‘As an object-lesson,’ replied Agis, perfectly seriously. He seemed to be labouring under some ill-concealed excitement. ‘Let the men of all countries see the tests of endurance to which we put our young men. If they learn nothing else, at least they will learn that we are a people to be feared in battle.’

  Alcibiades suspected shrewdly that the many aliens now jostling for a good view of the impending ceremony might have other reasons for their en
thusiasm; but of this he said nothing.

  Timaea was very near him; so near that if he had put out his hand only a little he could have touched her. But he did not move. The blood thundered in his head. His eyes took in the white falling folds of her dress, the strong curve of her cheekbone, the long slender fingers now clasped beneath her breast; and his heart beat as if he had run far over rough ground. He turned sharply away.

  The priestess, in her flowing white robes, laid three bronze sickles on the altar. Then, with slow steps, she retreated into the temple. The whole assembly was suddenly hushed. Then she came out again, and in her arms was the image of the Goddess. With a sigh and a rustle, the thousands of spectators dropped to their knees.

  The Goddess was like no image of Artemis that Alcibiades had ever seen. Above her painted face was the tall conical tiara: her breast was bare, and her flounced and pleated skirt fell stiffly to her ankles. As the priestess finished her obeisance, the crowd rose again. A trumpet rang out; and at its sound, moving like automata, three of the youths walked, from the ranks and approached the altar. The men with the whips moved forward; in an instant each youth was shackled by the wrists to a post. A low-drawn gasp of anticipation ran through the spectators. Alcibiades looked covertly from side to side. Timaea was quite still, biting her lips nervously, her hands clasped together so tightly that the knuckles showed white. Agis was staring fixedly towards the altar, his mouth half-open, his breath coming quickly. The suspense was intolerable.

  ‘Begin!’ called the priestess, in a high, keening voice: and the whips fell with a crack that echoed round the meadow. Sickened yet fascinated, Alcibiades saw the three dark red weals across the brown flesh. From one of them a thin trickle of blood had started to flow. None of the boys had uttered a sound. Then the second blow was struck: slowly, inevitably. The three brawny arms moved in unison: the horrible ceremony began to acquire a kind of rhythmic pattern. Alcibiades felt the sweat standing cold on his forehead.

  It was five minutes—though it seemed an age longer—before the first boy began to shriek. Once he began his iron self-control vanished in an instant. He howled like a tortured animal, writhing and tugging at the spiked fetters that held him. His back was a scarlet mess of blood and torn flesh, its grace and beauty all slashed to ribbons. Between the strokes of the lash the flies settled on him in dark lines, scattering into the air at each fresh blow. Then, with the same slow steps, the priestess moved to the altar. She touched it with her finger, then held up her hand. There was a spot of red upon the white; and a deep, long-drawn a-a-ah went up from the crowd.

  The captain gave one last stroke: a rain of blood spattered the priestess’s white robe. Then he stopped, his face twitching as if with contempt. He unfastened the shackles and the boy collapsed fainting at the foot of the post. The captain kicked the sprawling body aside roughly: two men picked up the boy and carried him away. As they did so, another boy moved forward from the ranks to take his place. The captain ran the lash through his fingers, scraping off the blood and the scraps of flesh which adhered to it. Then he turned to his work again.

  • • • • •

  It went on till evening, and during all that time, while the shadows grew short and then slowly lengthened once more, and the ranks of the youths were thinned as the sun dropped down the western sky, nobody moved, or spoke, or ate. About a score of those whipped cried out as the first one had done, and were removed in disgrace. Three were carried out dead. Most stood pain until they mercifully lost consciousness. Only two remained fully conscious and unflinching to the end. When the ceremony was over these stumbled painfully to the altar, with the cheers of the whole gathering ringing in their ears, and received from the hands of the priestess a sickle that had been dipped in their own blood. Each of them in turn knelt before the Goddess’s image and placed his sickle in her lap; then retired. Slowly, very slowly, the priestess carried the image back into the temple.

  Now it was quite dark, and there was another ceremony to be performed. It was in strange contrast to the bloody protracted ritual they had just witnessed. Where the blood still lay blackening on the trodden arena young maidens now danced and sang to the music of flutes, winding in and out in intricate patterns, their mock rivalry a strange and gentle epilogue to what had gone before. The flickering torches they carried lit up the scene with a red and lurid light; the smoke trailed away into the deep blue—now almost black—of the sky, fluttering in tenuous filaments across the heavy yellow moon. They were dressed as the Goddess had been dressed, in pleated skirts of purple, with tall tiaras and bodices pressed high under their bare breasts. Round their slender waists were twined snakes of wrought gold, and the rings clashed on their ankles. In the silent valley their voices rose sweetly, blending in subtle harmonies with the movements of the dance. When they had finished, they formed into a long procession and wound away towards the town. Soon they were invisible themselves; but their voices were still carried on the breeze, and the torches they bore twisted against the blackness like a fiery snake.

  ‘We call it the Lydian procession,’ said Timaea. Her face was only faintly visible in the darkness: she might have been speaking to herself. Alcibiades, feeling the tension relaxing, conscious that everywhere the densely packed spectators were stirring preparatory to departure, stretched himself, flexing his arms. As he did so, his hand touched that of the Queen. A violent shock seemed to run up his arm, and spread flaming through his whole body. He held his breath and remained completely motionless. Then, for an instant, the long smooth fingers closed over his; and almost immediately, withdrew.

  Agis turned to him, a wolfish expression on his face, and said: ‘Now comes the feasting. Even in Sparta we feast on occasion.’ In the darkness it seemed as though he were licking his lips. Alcibiades felt a revulsion that the prolonged tortures he had witnessed had failed to arouse in him. The crowds parted for the Ephors and the Royal party; and slowly they made their way towards Agis’ house. The smell of roasting meat reached them from the end of the street.

  When he sat down beside Agis on the dais he knew he would be unable to eat. The sight of the roasted flesh sickened him; he glanced at Agis, and saw that the King was eating ravenously, with huge and obvious enjoyment, as if he had just returned from a day’s hunting. Alcibiades drank his wine at a gulp. A. hovering slave at once refilled his cup, and he drank again. After that he felt better, and ate a little bread. But he still could not bring himself to touch the meat.

  Agis looked at him and laughed. He had himself drunk a good deal, and was in an excellent humour. The day’s events appeared to have given him peculiar satisfaction. ‘Does the Athenian have a delicate stomach for our ways?’ he asked; and one or two people chuckled amusedly. ‘We adhere to old customs,’ Agis went on. ‘We dislike change. There are many fashions here which the rest of Greece looks askance at.’

  ‘I would be interested to hear of them,’ said Alcibiades politely, more to distract attention from his own condition than anything else.

  Agis leant his elbows on the table. ‘In ways,’ he observed sententiously, ‘we are more enlightened than you. Among us it is honourable for husbands to . . . give their wives to other men.’ He grinned. Alcibiades’ eyes narrowed. Could Agis be so subtle? He contrived to look shocked and surprised.

  ‘Don’t misunderstand me,’ Agis went on. ‘We are opposed to mere wantonness more than any other nation. Our motives are of the highest. For one thing, such a course prevents the ridiculous jealousies that are all too common elsewhere. For another, fine sons may be born of such a union. Fine sons to serve Sparta,’ he repeated, and drank.

  That’s probably true enough, thought Alcibiades. At all costs they’ve got to preserve the pure-bred line. And their losses in battle are enormous. It was with an effort that he said, politely and casually: ‘Who most tend to profit by this practice?’

  Agis’ answer confirmed his guess. ‘Those whose wives are barren. They have a duty to breed sons.’

  One or two quiet
glances were exchanged at this. It was hardly a subject for the King to hold forth on.

  ‘I should have thought that in such a case divorce—’ began Alcibiades. Agis chuckled and winked. He was rapidly losing his self-control. ‘And what do you think would happen to the dowry then?’ he asked. To which Alcibiades had no answer.

  At this rather awkward moment there was a disturbance at the end of the hall. A man in travelling-clothes, dusty and red-eyed, pushed his way past the guests and fell on one knee before the King. Agis spat out a bone on to the table and said, ‘Well, man? What news?’

  The messenger rose and whispered in the King’s ear. Agis’ face displayed first anger, then satisfaction. He called to a steward to see that the man was fed, and turned to Alcibiades. All over the hall a buzz of speculation arose. Those nearest craned forward to hear his words.

  ‘Your advice was good, my friend. I have a report that the Athenians have done what we hoped. Our last raid in the Argolid has tempted them out. They have just executed a series of attacks all along the east coast of Sparta. A squadron of thirty ships. Gentlemen,’ he said, looking round the table, ‘we have the excuse we need.’

  His statement was not greeted with as much enthusiasm as he had expected; the Ephors looked at each other in positive dismay. Alcibiades was so excited that he failed to notice their reaction. The months of waiting had told heavily on him; the day’s events had strung him up to breaking-point. Impetuously he said: ‘Then we can declare open war once more?’