Achilles His Armour

by Peter Green

  ‘I think we might leave that till my return. If your advice proves good, you will not find us altogether ungrateful. If not—’ he shrugged and smiled. ‘I have given orders that you are not to leave the city of Sparta during my absence. You will be answerable to my colleague King Pausanias. Further, if you disobey any orders, or attempt to escape, your sponsor Endius will be held responsible for you. You may find his attitude to you somewhat changed.’

  Despite his position, Alcibiades grinned at the last remark. Then he said: ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the King, bending over his papers again: ‘yes, I think that’s all.’

  Outside in the darkness, walking slowly back to his billet, Alcibiades reflected on his position. Pausanias was an ill-tempered and caustic man; but his dislike for Agis was notorious. Here lay the only chance. Yes, a great deal might be done while Agis was away. It was with a feeling almost of irresponsibility that he went in search of Endius.

  It was only later that it came to him, with a sudden realisation that left him breathless, just how much could be done in the King’s absence by a man who cared little for the future.

  • • • • •

  Agis swept across Attica like a meteor, leaving a blazing trail of destruction behind him; and, like a meteor, he did most harm where he finally came to rest. For the first time in twelve years the people of Athens once again saw the night sky glowing dull red with the flames of burning farms. The fires roared and ate their way through the tall green corn, writhed round the roots of the vines and olives that were only now coming once more to maturity. Where the Spartan army passed, they left nothing but blackened walls and calcined stubble; and the ashes blew south with the wind into the streets of the City.

  But this attack was worse than any that men remembered. Before, there had been merely a raid every year: dangerous and destructive, but of short duration—a month at the outside. With the capture of the fortress of Decelea, Athens was faced with a permanent menace. As Alcibiades had foreseen, the mines were cut off, Spartan raiding parties roamed the countryside, and slaves began to desert in alarming numbers.

  The Athenian people knew only too well whom they had to thank for the situation in which they found themselves. But it was Agis who, with one of his flashes of dark Spartan humour, was responsible for spreading the rumour that Alcibiades was actually with him at Decelea. ‘He asked to come,’ the King observed one day to his staff captain, staring out from the walls of the fort to where the Cephisus River wound away through the plain towards Athens; ‘the least I can do now is to give him the reputation he’d have got if he’d actually been here.’ The rumour was in fact believed for a while; and a motion was tabled in the Assembly to have Alcibiades’ son put to death. But this was a little too much even for them; and the dark, solitary four-year-old child was allowed to live. Perhaps they were even a little afraid of it.

  Demosthenes’ fleet was now ready to sail for Sicily; but Agis’ action at Decelea required immediate retaliation in kind. Reinforcements were summoned from Argos; and Demosthenes landed a strong task force on the south coast of Sparta. It was not till the end of May that he crossed the Adriatic and anchored cautiously off the Grand Harbour of Syracuse; and then only to find that the indefatigable Gylippus had out-manoeuvred and outfought Nicias so well that he had captured the Athenian naval base and all its stores. Nicias and his rotting ships had been forced back on to the open beach in front of their camp; a muddy, unprotected piece of coast-line, marshy and unhealthy. It was no wonder that Demosthenes and his imposing fleet were hailed as deliverers; it was only surprising, thought the tall red-headed general, as he surveyed the impossible position from which he would have to fight, that the Syracusans themselves took his arrival as seriously as they did.

  • • • • •

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Endius, when he had heard the full story of Alcibiades’ interview with the King. ‘I ought to have seen that this would happen.’ He walked to and fro in the small room, his head bent, his hands clasped behind his back. ‘I don’t say that your position is necessarily as bad as Agis makes out. There may still be ways in which you can be of invaluable assistance to us. But you must see that I can’t take any immediate action on your behalf. I’m being held responsible for you. I’m in an extremely awkward position.’

  ‘I appreciate that.’ Alcibiades’ voice was courteous; but as he watched the Ephor he felt nothing but contempt. These Spartans were all alike: either bullies or cowards. It was clearly useless to prolong the interview any further.

  Outside in the darkness he stood quite still for a moment, peering about him. It was almost certain he was being watched; but all seemed still and quiet. His throat dry with excitement, he set off at a quick pace in the opposite direction to his actual destination, stopping and looking back from time to time. Then he plunged into a maze of dark alleys, twisting and doubling on his tracks till he was sure he had shaken off any possible pursuit. At last he came to a narrow, overhung lane along the side of which ran a high wall. Without hesitation he jumped up, his fingers scrabbling on the crumbling mud-brick, his feet searching for crevices; hauled himself over, and dropped into a deserted courtyard.

  He stood in the shadow of the wall for a minute or so, breathing fast. It was not yet midnight; from the low building in front of him a single lamp flickered by a window. He moved cautiously, following the wall, avoiding the faint moonlight that silvered the cobbles in the centre of the courtyard. Once he dislodged a stone, with a noise that to his overwrought nerves sounded like a clap of thunder. He remained motionless for a little; but no one seemed to have heard. He felt hatred curdling inside him, the desire for crude, quick revenge. It rose sourly, blotting out all other emotions. With quick confident steps he made his way to the side of the window and cautiously peered in. What he saw evidently satisfied him. Noiselessly he swung himself up and dropped into the room.

  • • • • •

  ‘I tell you it’s our only chance,’ said Demosthenes. He was just hanging on to the shreds of his temper. His face under its greying reddish hair was flushed, and the knuckles on his big bony hands showed white. For two hours he had argued, at first amiably, then with increasing tartness; and now he was back where he had begun.

  ‘You don’t realise what the situation in Athens is. I should have had thirteen hundred Thracian swordsmen with me when I arrived. Well, I haven’t. A drachma a day was all they asked, and we couldn’t raise even that. We had to send them back home again. I hear they looted our own towns on the way, and I don’t blame them.’ He wiped the sweat from his forehead and stood up with his back to Nicias, looking out through the flaps of the tent to where in the darkness the water purled and hissed on the shingle.

  ‘Our men are worn out. We have to keep a strong garrison all round the City walls in case of a surprise attack. All the country forts are manned. The troops do their guard duty turn and turn about by day. That’s the only time they can get any sleep. They’re all on duty at night.

  ‘And you sit here and advocate caution,’ he cried, swinging round to face Nicias. The old man’s face was haggard and twitching. ‘It’s almost unbelievable that we still keep a force in Sicily at all. What have you got to show for your time here? The fleet’s almost useless. Your stores are captured. You’ve lost eight hundred men up-country in some ridiculous skirmish. Are you still going to refuse to take my advice?’

  ‘You haven’t been particularly successful yourself yet,’ said Nicias, with something of his old spitefulness. ‘You know as well as I do that we’re in no position to attack by sea. It’s not only the state of the ships. We haven’t got room to manoeuvre. And the Syracusans have fitted their craft with heavy rams—’

  ‘I wasn’t proposing to attack by sea,’ snapped Demosthenes. ‘Will you listen to me? Our only chance is a night assault on the heights of Epipolae. Once we control them again, we can take the town.’

  Nicias blinked and swallowed. Then he said, his hands nervously playi
ng with the hem of his tunic, ‘This plan strikes me as the very height of rash foolhardiness. There is more sense in my tactics than you admit. You talk about our shortage of money. The Syracusans are as hard pressed as ourselves. You say you value your men. Will you throw them all away on a forlorn chance when you can get what you want without striking a blow? I have not been altogether idle, my friend. I am in communication with agents in Syracuse itself. They assure me that a capitulation is only a matter of time.’

  Demosthenes swore impatiently. ‘Diplomacy’ he said. There was a wealth of contempt in the word. ‘Sparta and Corinth are pouring supplies in to help them. Your diplomacy might have worked six months ago—but I doubt even that. What guarantee have you that your agents’ll keep faith with you? You made your mistake when you first came to Sicily. You should have struck at Syracuse at once. It may be too late to do it now; but it’s our only chance.’

  Grumbling and protesting, covering his retreat with hair-splitting arguments and endless objections, Nicias at length, and with great hesitancy, yielded to Demosthenes’ plans. When the attack was agreed upon for the following night, and Demosthenes was deep in details of the supplies and equipment required, briefing junior officers and plotting out every step of the operation, Nicias still kept up a querulous and infuriating commentary, questioning the wisdom of every decision, gloomily prophesying defeat and disaster, till Demosthenes himself caught something of the old man’s mood, and flung off out of the tent in a rage. Staring up at the dark hill he would have to storm in twenty-four hours’ time, he reflected that this was hardly an auspicious beginning for such a desperate hope. Then he shook his head like a dog and returned to his staff-work.

  • • • • •

  Alcibiades took in the details of the shadowy room at a single glance; the tall glistening water-jar close beside him, the heavy copper-bound chest; a small table, a chair with a robe flung over it; the great bed in the corner, an undyed sheepskin spread out at its foot. He felt the beaten earth floor through the thin soles of his sandals. The single lamp spluttered crazily, and his shadow wavered on the wall where no arras hung.

  All that he could see of the Queen was a tall slim shadow, motionless beside the bed. In the absolute silence he heard her breathing. There was a rapid, uneven note in it, like the breathing of a sleeper who fights against a fearful dream. Neither of them spoke a word. She had not cried out when his dark shadow came between her and the moonlight, or while he stood beside the window, waiting. Now he knew there was no need of words.

  Slowly, like a sleep-walker, he moved across the room and took the lamp from its bracket, and held it up before her. The flame cast a reddish glow over her dark face, glinting in her hair, casting deep shadows beneath her cheek-bones. Her mouth was half-open, and between the gleam of her teeth her tongue showed like the bud of a flower. Her great black eyes watched him unwaveringly; but her breathing came faster and faster, and she began to tremble, with deep shudders that shook her whole body. Then she tugged at the wrap she wore, and it fell in folds at her feet.

  She was like a column of light, perfection made manifest in flesh. The hand that held the lamp shook uncontrollably; rippling shadows flickered across her breasts and shivered to stillness against the dark walls. She moved as a fish moves in water, smoothly and gracefully, and lay down on the bed, her toes pointing, her arms spread like a pirouetting dancer.

  He set the lamp at her head and watched her, as a man dying of thirst stares across burning wastes to the gleam of silver that may be either deception or the stuff of life. He knelt down beside the bed, his long fair hair falling about his face, the light glowing steadily now, and with finger-tips light and gentle as the air itself learnt the ways of her body. He traced out the supple line of throat and jaw, fluttering lips and eyelids, the black burning forest of her hair. Then, with infinite tenderness, he bent over and kissed her mouth; and at that touch a singing shock ran through his body, biting like a sword to his inmost being. His muscles tautened convulsively, and a red glare danced in his eyes. When, finally, he held her body close against his, it was as if she was burning the flesh away from his bones, leaving only a dried husk behind. He had a final sensation of plunging downwards into a roaring abyss, now only dimly conscious of her warm mouth and twining limbs; and then he was lost to sight and sound, drowning in a sea of fire that seemed to consume him utterly.

  The lamp flickered for the last time and went out.

  • • • • •

  The attack on Epipolae was a complete failure. Demosthenes himself fought every inch of the way, his face grey and spattered with blood, his men rallying around him in a last desperate rearguard action. When he brought them into camp as dawn broke, he found he had lost over two thousand of his best troops; and all the following day the stragglers were rounded up and slaughtered by Gylippus and the Syracusan cavalry.

  Now if ever, he thought, when the weary commanders met to deliberate on their next move, now if ever Nicias will agree to give up the venture. But the old man was as stubborn as only he knew how to be. It became clear that he was more afraid of facing the Athenian Assembly than dying at the gates of Syracuse.

  For nearly three weeks he held his beaten and bedraggled army in the fever-stricken camp, in an agony of indecision. The numbers of the sick rose steadily, as Demosthenes had foretold; all day long from the brown patched tents came the babble of delirious men, half-starved, poisoned by tainted water and the vapours that rose from the swamp at nightfall, scorched by day with the killing Sicilian sun. They sweated and died, their lungs choked with the fine sand that whirled in eddies among the tents; their bodies were thrown into the marsh because there was nowhere to bury them. The camp was filled with the sickly sweet smell of decaying corpses.

  It was the arrival of a new Spartan army that finally drove Nicias to the decision he should have made weeks before. His contacts in Syracuse had mysteriously failed; a blind man entering the Athenian lines would have scented defeat in the air, and the Syracusans were ready, at long last, for the kill. Demosthenes, who had been down with fever, and was now a mere bright-eyed skeleton of his former self, finally made up the old man’s mind.

  Besides, the troops were perilously near to mutiny. The casualties had been highest among Nicias’ veterans, worn out with long service in appalling conditions; they had reached a point of apathy that matched their commander’s. But Demosthenes’ reinforcements were comparatively fresh. They crowded round the arguing generals in their hundreds, brushing aside guards and staff captains: lean and wolfish, blackened by the sun, the fear of death in their eyes. Some called for a return home. These were mostly the sick. Others backed up Demosthenes, crying out that with a fresh base they still had a chance to win through.

  Demosthenes looked searchingly at Nicias as the hubbub went on all round them; he knew that Nicias was beaten, and that Nicias knew it too. Yet the old man, sick and shaking, managed to preserve his dignity.

  ‘We sail at dawn tomorrow,’ he observed. ‘At the appointed hour I shall have a trumpet sounded. Any man not aboard by then will be left ashore, whatever his rank. I advise you to begin your preparations at once.’

  He walked away quickly when he had spoken. He did not want to see his orders being carried out. All that afternoon, alone in his tent, he heard the men singing and shouting at their work, their boots slipping in the shingle as they heaved heavy boxes of stores aboard, and over all the shrill notes of the boatswains’ pipes.

  • • • • •

  The delirious man knew that he was dying. He had been laid in his cloak on the sand, with a thick sheepskin over him; but he still shivered and trembled. His head was on fire, but a deadly cold moved in his groin. He looked up at the sky, and knew that this was the last time he would see the stars, and that when the fleet sailed in the morning he would be left behind to suffer the unspeakable burial of the swamp. Yet between bursts of sobbing and singing he still prayed for life. He lay on his back and stared upward to where the Moon hung
full and bright in the sky. Sovereign Lady, he whispered, grant me to live.

  The light wavered in front of his eyes. On the face of the Moon a shadow was beginning to spread, black and opaque, blotting out the brightness from him. Slowly, unbearably slowly it moved; and as it swelled the darkness thickened about him. I am going blind, he shrieked, I am dying. But no one listened to him. They too were staring upwards, till the shadow swept across their faces, erasing the terror, bringing them to their feet with howls of panic that spread instantaneously through the whole army.

  They stumbled about aimlessly in the blackness, beating frantically on shields, cauldrons, or cooking-pots with sword or spearbutt to avert the evil daemons from them, trampling on those who were still asleep, till the latter, waking with angry oaths, were themselves awed into silence by what they saw. In a few moments the entire camp was in a state of hysterical pandemonium.

  Demosthenes woke from a sweating nightmare and sprang up, thinking the position was being attacked. He grabbed a sword and strode out into a welter of sprawling bodies. Here and there a tossing torch half-illuminated the scene. Demosthenes cursed, having barked his bare shins, and laid about him with the flat of his sword. He shot out his arm and caught hold of a man at random.

  ‘What’s happened, you fool? What’s happened?’

  The man was gibbering with fright, and could hardly articulate.

  ‘Sir . . . the Moon . . . we are all cursed . . .’ A flicker of light showed up his face for a moment; it was greenish-white, and his mouth hung open.

  ‘The Moon?’ Demosthenes released him, and he fell in a heap. ‘Is everyone mad here?’ Then he looked up at the sky and remembered. The superstitious fools, he thought, a new fear of his own suddenly assailing him. He made his way, with some difficulty, to Nicias’ tent.