Achilles His Armour

by Peter Green

  For some days Athens was in the grip of an ugly hysteria. It was not only the loss of all their finest men they mourned. There were hardly any ships left in the dockyards, or crews to man them, or money to pay the crews. They were open to immediate attack; and there were few who doubted that it would come at any day, either from Sicily or Sparta. As usual, a scapegoat had to be found; and there was some cruel witch-hunting of the soothsayers and orators who had predicted a glorious outcome to the expedition. Androcles and his friends wisely lay low.

  But when the first fears had somewhat subsided, and still no attack came, their resilient qualities began to show through. With their allies revolting all round them, they once more began to build ships. With next to no money in the Treasury, they appointed ten elders to rescue them from complete financial disaster. Slowly and desperately, Athens began to struggle to her feet again. New faces appeared among her politicians: Theramenes, the boyhood friend of Alcibiades, the pupil of Socrates, who had inherited some of his teacher’s moderation and wisdom; Phrynichus, a shepherd from the hills who had drifted in to the City when war broke out for the second time.

  And nearly every day some scarred and haggard man would make his way to the lean-to hut on the shore where the lonely and bitter poet Euripides lived, and stammer out his thanks to the old man who, all unwittingly, had been the means of saving his life.

  It took some time for the full implications of the disaster to come home, to victors and vanquished alike; and when at last the Spartans realised how the pattern of power had shifted, and saw the enormous prize that seemed to be theirs almost for the asking, they were afraid of its very magnitude.

  But they could not remain inactive for ever. The collapse of the Sicilian expedition produced a wave of revolt among Athens’ dependencies on the Ionian coast of Asia. Allies under duress, held down by force of arms and a crippling tribute, they saw here their only chance of freedom. And to whom should they turn but Sparta? Their ambassadors hastened to be the first to declare against their former masters. Some made their way to Agis, still master of Attica in his lonely fortress at Decelea. Others, perhaps more wisely, approached the government of Sparta itself.

  But with these last came other representatives, Orientals; and their presence in the Spartan capital showed how utterly the shape of the Mediterranean world had changed. Pharnabazus, the Persian satrap of Dascylium in Phrygia, had two renegade Greeks as his agents; but his colleague Tissaphernes, who ruled over Lydian Sardis, openly sent a Persian ambassador, whose gorgeous robes and Oriental trews looked out of place among the homespun garments of Sparta. Once again, it seemed; the Great King was moved to concern himself with the affairs of Greece.

  • • • • •

  For weeks after the shock of Gylippus’ dispatch, Alcibiades had avoided everyone, even Antiochus. The big hearty sailor was finding life more and more irksome at Sparta; and one day in October he left a note by Alcibiades’ bed and slipped quietly out of the City to try and make his way back to Athens. Alcibiades read the note and shrugged his shoulders. He was in the grip of that deadly apathy which at first infrequently, and then with alarming and increasing regularity, had begun to assault him during the past five years.

  Only his body now did not betray him: and he used it cruelly, as if punishing himself. He rode for miles up the Eurotas valley, eating nothing, drinking only at sundown from the icy stream; Helots in the mountain ranges of Taygetus paused to stare at the tall spare golden-haired man with the lined scarred face who went past them without a word, his eyes on the distant hills. At first he broke Agis’ restriction on his movements in a crazy desire to provoke trouble; but the Ephors, perceiving he made no attempt to escape, left him alone. Their own attitude to him had altered; they held apart as if a curse lay upon him.

  Only Timaea saved him during this period. She gave him the comfort no one else could; the pattern of his life revolved round those stolen nights he spent with her. As time went on he poured out all his doubts and fears, exposing himself the more mercilessly as his own sense of degradation grew deeper. All the time she was binding him closer to her.

  Yet she knew it could not last. She knew that soon his despair and self-condemnation all forgotten, he would embark on some new scheme in which she would have no part. For all his experience he remains a child, she thought; his world is the world of a child, where charm and enthusiasm can conquer everything. The least thing now that offers him a chance of escape, and he will be gone. And I shall have nothing—unless . . . But that she scarcely dared to hope, even to herself.

  • • • • •

  It was Endius who gave Alcibiades that one chance, for somewhat mixed motives. Shrewder politically than his fellow Ephors, he saw at once that if Persia was going to take a hand in Greek affairs, skilled diplomacy was imperative in order to entice her gold to the right quarters. There could be no doubt that for such a delicate and personal mission the supple Athenian was more fitted than his Spartan hosts. Endius moreover understood both Alcibiades’ character and his present state of mind; it was on the Ephor’s own responsibility that he had been allowed freedom of movement. Endius was an ambitious man: and he still believed that Alcibiades could be of the utmost use to him. Events seemed to be proving him right.

  But he had another reason as well. For some time now the Queen had been a changed person. Cynics ascribed the fact merely to Agis’ departure: her relations with her husband were well known. But Endius watched her animated laughing face, the softening of her features, the lazy grace of her movements: and he drew his own conclusions. Presently, with infinite tact and secrecy, he had his suspicions confirmed by proof. The day after his agent had made his report, behind closed doors, the unfortunate man was killed in a hunting accident. Endius was nothing if not thorough.

  For two days he listened to the proposals of the rebellious Ionian islanders and the subtle agents of the Persian satraps. Then he wrote a brief note to Alcibiades inviting him to a private dinner. In it he revealed just enough of the facts to whet the Athenian’s curiosity. He read it over again, smiling to himself. He will come, he thought. There is no doubt he will come.

  • • • • •

  The meal had been a sumptuous one by Spartan standards. Alcibiades had eaten well: his eyes sparkled, and his conversation had regained some of its old wit and fire. He’s like an old hound on a new scent, thought Endius, as he plied him with wine. But he said nothing of importance till the food was cleared away and the Helot servants had withdrawn. Then, with a heavy flagon between them on the table, he prepared to set his bait.

  But it was Alcibiades who took the initiative. The mention of Persia in that enigmatic note had jerked him back into reality more effectively than anything else could have done. His cramped, self-obsessed mind suddenly caught fire. The whole of the East—Persia, the islands, the. Hellespont—had been suddenly flung into the scales. He was conscious of an intense and rising excitement.

  He spoke of all this to Endius, with a crackling enthusiasm that took the older man’s breath away.

  ‘This is what we’ve been waiting for,’ he said. ‘Agis can hold the mainland from Decelea. But for the rest . . . ! The islands. And above all, Persian gold.’

  Endius smiled. ‘It’s not as simple as that,’ he said. ‘Hadn’t you better hear all the facts first?’ He leant forward, his tall ungainly body hunching awkwardly over the table.

  ‘To start with, these two Persian satraps have no sanction from the Great King. They’re acting entirely on their own initiative. And it’s easy to see why. They’re hard pressed for tribute. The islanders I’m sorry for: they have to pay either way, to Athens or Persia. And so far it’s been to Athens. Now they’re all rebelling. Do you think Tissaphernes and Pharnabazus are interested in helping us any more than they would Athens? Why do you think they’re suddenly taking such an interest in what’s going on? Because they see a heaven-sent chance to recapture the whole Ionian coastline, islands and all, for their own purposes. That’s w
hat they’ve been after for years, ever since they lost them to our grandfathers. Any help they give us will be strictly with that end in view.’

  ‘But they will give some help?’ asked Alcibiades. He had been following Endius’ remarks with the utmost attention.

  ‘There are two rival offers. Our Persian friends don’t trust each other any more than they do us. Tissaphernes is willing to offer a drachma a day to each man who joins in an expedition to Chios. His tribute is in arrears, and this, I fancy, will be a good way for him to recoup himself. Further, he has a rebellion on his hands in Caria. There’s little doubt he’d use our men to subdue that.’

  ‘And Pharnabazus?’

  ‘A very interesting proposition, made for much the same motives. Those two Greeks he sent brought twenty-five talents with them. They are ours on condition that we send a Spartan fleet into the Hellespont, and make an open alliance with Persia.’

  Alcibiades thought rapidly. ‘You speak as if these were the only two alternatives,’ he said at length.

  ‘They are.’

  ‘But Agis? I thought there had been some approaches made to him?’

  Endius looked a little embarrassed. ‘Between ourselves,’ he said, in a lower voice, ‘the King is showing a good deal too much independence of action for the liking of my colleagues. Or, I may say, of myself. He has been launching expeditions on the mainland without even referring the matter to Sparta. In the circumstances, it is better that any action should be taken from here, with the full approval of the government.’

  ‘I see. I gather you want my opinion?’

  ‘That was why I asked you here. You have, as I know, certain contacts in the Eastern world.’ Endius watched his guest’s perplexity with a certain malicious enjoyment.

  Alcibiades was fully aware of this. There was, on the face of it, not the least doubt which was the more attractive of the two offers, or the more profitable from a purely military point of view. A Spartan fleet in control of the Hellespont, combined with Agis’ stranglehold over the Greek mainland, would finish off Athens in six months. The occupation of Attica had already reduced her supplies: the blockading of the vital corn-ships from the Black Sea would cut them off altogether.

  On the other hand, from his own point of view the scheme had nothing to commend it at all. The most essential thing was to get away from Sparta; and in the Hellespont there was no conceivable reason for his presence. He had no friends or connections there; his only visit, years ago, had been with Axiochus, to Abydos; and his activities on this occasion had hardly been calculated to endear him to the local population. And—though he could scarcely admit this to Endius—his immediate aim was more to create a situation in which he could return home than to assist in a Spartan victory that would leave him more rootless than ever.

  But a voyage to Ionia was a different matter. He had many friends at Ephesus and Miletus; and in the curious no-man’s-land which the islands had become, there was no knowing what might happen. This was his own territory; and as far as Sparta was concerned, he would be a vital adjunct to any success they might have there.

  Most of this Endius had already worked out for himself. He was, perhaps, less optimistic about the immediate results of a move into the Hellespont; but he was as concerned to get Alcibiades out of the country as Alcibiades was himself. If Endius had had any respect for Agis he might never have acted as he did; but the suspicion that had grown between the King and the Ephorate was having its effect.

  He listened cynically as Alcibiades gave his views. The islands were essential to Sparta; once they were secured, it was time to think of the Hellespont. It was not a very convincing argument, and went on for some time; at the end of it Alcibiades was somewhat surprised when Endius promised to do all he could to get it accepted.

  But the Ephor was as good as his word: the Spartan Assembly voted an expedition of forty ships to go to Chios. It was understood that Alcibiades should accompany the Spartan admiral as unofficial adviser; and the two Greeks sent by Pharnabazus took their twenty-five talents and returned home in a fury. It was nearly the end of November; and the expedition was scheduled to sail in the new year.

  • • • • •

  It had been a heavy, thunderous day, without a breath of wind stirring; but now, towards midnight, the rain was beginning to fall, in heavy infrequent drops. Timaea lay in the great bed and heard the drops plashing in the courtyard outside, straining her ears for the sound of a footfall.

  Endius had been right: a remarkable change had taken place in her. Her whole carriage, the very contours of her face, had subtly softened; her breasts had grown fuller, her voice had completely lost the irritated edginess which had once been its dominant characteristic. The Ephor’s anxiety to get Alcibiades out of the country—on this count at least—was more than understandable: Timaea, in her curious Spartan innocence, flaunted her changed condition with such open satisfaction that it could only be a matter of time before the whole country knew about it. How like a woman, thought Endius in exasperation: she receives her lover in secret, yet leaves him in her eyes for any fool to see who wishes.

  Now Timaea rose silently, lit the lamp, and took a great bronze key from its hiding-place in the closet. With shaking fingers she unlocked the copper-bound chest, and delved down towards the bottom of it. First she took out a box of sandalwood. This was locked as well, and she opened it with a key that hung from a thin chain round her neck. Then, from the very bottom of the chest, she lifted out a dress that shimmered and flashed in cascading masses of silk by the flickering light of the lamp, and put it on.

  It was of pale saffron yellow, the colour of the first light of the dawn; and it set off her olive skin and dark hair magnificently. She stared at herself in the bronze hand-mirror, and a smile of satisfaction spread over her face. Then she laid out her ornaments: all of gold. She bound golden sandals on her feet, and the golden girdle of wrought snakes about her waist. Then the armlets and eardrops, glimmering and dancing by the flame from the lamp. Last of all she twined a golden rosette into her hair.

  Now she opened the sandalwood box, and from it took several phials and other mysterious objects which she laid out lovingly on the table before her. Propping the mirror up against the wall, she did what no Spartan woman dared to do, a thing for which the penalty was death: she painted her face. With a scarlet salve she lined in the rich fullness of her mouth; she darkened her eyelids and dusted a fine powder over her flawless cheeks and forehead. She opened a little bottle, and a faint sensuous scent spread about the darkened room: she poured a little of the precious stuff on a cloth, and pressed it to her throat and breast. When all was done to her satisfaction, she locked the sandalwood box once more and shut it away in the chest, and stood in taut expectancy by the window, her breast heaving.

  The purchase of that box and the silken dress she wore had cost her much money, and more than money. No merchant was permitted to bring such things within Spartan territory; and in the end she had had to take one of her handmaids into her confidence, and bribe her heavily, to get what she desired. The girl had accomplished her dangerous mission to Argos in safety: she had sworn herself to secrecy, and Timaea trusted her to keep her word. But the risk had been enormous.

  There were still some things of which Endius was unaware.

  She did not hear Alcibiades come till his shadow appeared in the window. He swung himself into the room with the ease born of practice, and stood in front of her, his cloak heavy and sodden with rain. She took it from him and hung it from a rack in the corner of the room, shaking out the drops of moisture from it as she went. Then she turned and faced him.

  His silent coming had been a shock; lately he had grown careless of secrecy, and she had heard his light, confident step crossing the courtyard long before he entered the room. But tonight there was an air of suppressed excitement about him. His face was alert, his eyes sparkled. As she looked at him, she felt a premonition of disaster. But she took the lamp, and held it up so that he could look
his fill.

  He stared incredulously, hardly recognising her, silenced by the utter unexpectedness of what he saw. A twenty-year-old memory swept over him, and left him trembling.

  ‘Why do you look at me like that . . .?’ She put down the lamp and came close to him. He smelt the familiar scent on her body.

  Then she felt him gripping her by the arms, talking in that quick light voice which sent the blood coursing through her veins. He spoke of Persia and Athens, of a new war and fresh intrigue. The words hummed half meaninglessly in her ears. But suddenly she caught a phrase and stared at him with terror in her eyes.

  ‘You are leaving Sparta?’ she whispered. She had known this moment would come; yet now it bad she refused to believe it.

  ‘What else would you have me do?’ said Alcibiades impatiently. ‘Should I stay here and be trapped like a rat by my enemies?’ He broke off at the expression on her face; then went on, carried away by his enthusiasm: ‘There’s a small expedition sailing to Chios in a week or two. I am to go with it. I know the Ionian coast as no Spartan does. It means freedom—more than freedom, if I play my part well—’

  ‘Is that all you think of?’ said Timaea bitterly. ‘What is to become of me? You made me a woman. What do you ask me to do? Turn back to the King, and the ways of Sparta? I could never bring myself to it.’ She drew away a little from him, panting, her eyes bright with rage.

  Alcibiades seemed more irritated than shamed by her words. ‘What kind of talk is this?’ he asked curtly. ‘Are you mad enough to think that Agis would have given you up to me? You are not a child. You must have known all this when you took me as a lover.’ He said in a changed voice: ‘Why do you think I desired you?’

  She began to speak, but he went on ruthlessly: ‘Because you were a Spartan, and Queen of Sparta. I loved you for your proud ways. For your fearlessness and independence and courage. For your splendid body. If I had wanted a soft courtesan I would not have looked for her in Sparta. I have known many such women. I was sick and tired of them. And now you—you who were none of these things—you come to me in silk and scent, with your face painted like a whore.’ His voice fell away on a note of cold disgust.