by Peter Green
Whatever Tissaphernes did, he would have to satisfy the King. It would be madness for him to turn back to Athens again. He would have to come to Alcibiades. And what can I offer him? Alcibiades said aloud to the darkness. I am as responsible to Sparta as he is to Darius.
And then he realised that he might go far beyond what Sparta sanctioned. He sat up in bed with excitement as the idea pieced itself together in his mind.
A secret treaty.
If Darius wanted the Islands that Alcibiades now controlled he could have them—on paper. The government at Sparta need never know; nor need the islanders themselves—till it was too late. If Darius got what he wanted, he would give in return alliance, money, anything within reason.
They would bid for Darius’ friendship: but they would have to bid through Alcibiades—Athenians and Spartans alike. He would be the man who held Tissaphernes to a bargain. He would be the man in the confidence of the Great King. He would be the only one who could give either side in Greece the money they needed.
With a flash of revelation he suddenly realised where this path might lead. It was as if he had seen, from a far off hill-top, the end of a long and wearisome journey, the towers and temples of Athens. If they need me enough . . . he thought, and then put the idea quickly out of his mind. But it had taken root.
Two days later Tissaphernes arrived in Miletus.
• • • • •
Tissaphernes was a man about forty, plump and well-kept, with a deceptive air of indolence only belied by his shrewd piercing black eyes. He and Alcibiades took each other’s measure the moment they met; and they both combined to smooth away Chalcideus’ incoherent suspicions. The Spartan commander had taken a violent and immediate dislike to this effeminate Persian nobleman, with his long, greasy black hair, carefully dressed in ringlets, his silken trousers and pointed shoes, his rings and cosmetics and scent. While he sat angrily silent, Tissaphernes and Alcibiades, in perfect understanding, talked at him and over him, till, bewildered and grumbling, he set his signature to a treaty which he would never have considered for a moment if he had fully understood the implications. All those countries and cities which the King possesses, or the King’s ancestors possessed, shall be the King’s; and the King and the Spartans shall together prevent those revenues from them which formerly the Athenians enjoyed falling henceforward into Athenians hands. So ran the first clause; and Chalcideus did not think of inquiring the extent of the dominions that had appertained to Darius’ ancestors, nor where the tribute would in future be sent.
When the treaty was signed, Alcibiades did not send his copy to Sparta; instead he wrote a long letter to Endius, giving a glowing account of the Ionian campaign, and triumphantly ending with the announcement that he had secured an alliance with the Great King. It could not be long, he calculated, before Timaea’s pregnancy became public knowledge; but this dispatch might well preserve his precarious position for a little longer.
Later that night he called on Tissaphernes alone; and secured his consent that, for the time being at least, the treaty should remain secret. The satrap was only too willing to agree; he knew, and knew that Alcibiades knew, that he had as much to lose if things went awry as the Athenian himself.
• • • • •
It took two months for Alcibiades to learn how much his treaty was worth when confronted by hard facts. At the end of that time it was not only still unratified, but a dead-letter; and he himself was once more in danger of his life.
The one unexpected, almost unbelievable fact was that Athens during that period recovered her power at sea. The islanders had had time to reflect; and it occurred to some of them that even an Athenian democracy might be preferable to the harsh rule of Sparta. This was nowhere more apparent than on the island of Samos. All Alcibiades’ efforts, military and diplomatic, to effect its secession failed; and as if to underline his failure, during the summer the commons rose in a body and slaughtered all the oligarchs in a single night. There could be little doubt that Athenian agents were responsible; but the fact remained that Samos held out. Its great naval base served as a rallying-point for the squadrons which in ever-increasing numbers came pouring across the Aegean, as fast as the shipwrights could get them off the stocks in the Piraeus.
This new Athenian fleet acted quickly and effectively. Clazomenae fell to them, and so did the island of Lesbos. Chios was blockaded, and the Chians began to reconsider their earlier enthusiasm for the fine words of Sparta. A fresh Spartan squadron sent out under an incompetent landsman named Astyochus was chased from Erythrae to Chios and firmly bottled up there. And one morning Alcibiades woke up to find an Athenian fleet, augmented by the blockading squadron from Lade, encircling the harbour of Miletus itself; while Athenian infantry had cut off all the roads into the town.
• • • • •
The ill-fated sortie he made from Miletus against the besiegers, riding with Tissaphernes and his Persian cavalry, remained with him ever afterwards as a hideous and confused nightmare. For the first time in his life he was actually taking the field against his countrymen, men of his own flesh and blood; and it brought home to him as nothing else had ever done the full horror of his position.
He sat his horse inside the gates beside Tissaphernes himself, sick and trembling. The satrap watched him narrowly, and smiled to himself. Then the gates were flung open and the cavalry streamed through. On either side of the Athenian in his battered armour rode dark foreign horsemen, black-bearded and hook-nosed, strange and unfamiliar with their padded cuirasses and outlandish battlecries.
Ahead of him Alcibiades saw Athenian faces and ensigns, heard the long-forgotten voices of men he knew. Abruptly he wheeled his horse round and withdrew from the battle to the walls of the town, and sat there, tears streaming down his face, as the battle surged to and fro.
Presently the Spartans and Persians began to give ground; and a few minutes later they were in full flight for the safety of the city. Alcibiades rode in with the last of the cavalry, and heard the great gates crash to behind him.
• • • • •
That afternoon one of Chalcideus’ officers came to see him, awkward as Chalcideus himself had been among the fantastic splendours of that Eastern house.
He seemed ill at ease, and avoided Alcibiades’ eyes as he spoke.
‘Chalcideus is dead,’ he said.
‘I did not know.’ Alcibiades’ face remained impassive as he stared at the man, trying to probe the hatred and resentment that were written plainly in his face.
‘Yes, my lord,’ said the Spartan: ‘I know you did not know.’
Alcibiades felt the colour rise to his cheeks. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked.
‘Chalcideus was killed at the head of his squadron, my lord. From where you were it would have been a miracle indeed if you had seen him die.’
Alcibiades said angrily, his nerves fraying; ‘Watch your words. If Chalcideus is dead, I command the Spartan forces in Miletus.’
The Spartan stared with barely veiled insolence. ‘Ah. I see,’ he said. ‘You must forgive me if I find the situation a little unusual. An Athenian commander . . . I have no doubt you can show your men a warrant. from the Spartan government?’
‘It was agreed that I came to Ionia as Chalcideus’ second-in-command,’ snapped Alcibiades. ‘Till the government supersedes me or confirms my appointment, I assume command automatically. I shall make my report tonight.’ He met the Spartan eye to eye and added: ‘There is room in it for details of insubordination among my men. I have given you a fair warning.’
‘What else will you write in that report?’ said the Spartan with sudden fury. ‘Will you say that Athens has won back in a month almost all she lost? That her fleet controls the Aegean again? That Tissaphernes is the real master of Miletus and the Ionian coast? Will you tell the Spartans that all you’ve succeeded in doing is to play into Persia’s hands—that you aimed to use both Persia and Sparta for your own ends and failed? You spoke to the islanders of a war
of liberation, and you enslave them to the Great King. You boasted of the money Tissaphernes would give us. Our men have seen none of it. And today you held off from battle. You’re a fine intriguer; but you haven’t the stomach to fight against the men you’ve deserted.’
They stood glaring at one another, panting. But when Alcibiades spoke it was in an almost calm voice.
‘I can only assume,’ he said icily, ‘that the heat of battle has made you forget your sense of discipline. You may rest assured that I shall acquaint the Spartan government with everything they need to know. That is all. You may go.’
For a second the Spartan hesitated. Then he raised his hand in a stiff salute. ‘There are others who can write to Sparta,’ he said. Then he was gone, his heavy scarlet cloak brushing the woven silk hangings, his heavy boots rasping over the polished floor.
Two days later a combined Spartan and Sicilian fleet relieved Miletus, and the Athenians withdrew to Samos. But the damage had been done.
• • • • •
As soon as the letter came Alcibiades knew what it must be. The bearer was a slave—a Carian by his thin bird-like face—and he now stood uneasily in front of this strange Athenian, staring at the silken robe, the scar that gleamed white through golden stubble where the beard was beginning to grow again, and the brown restless hands that twisted the roll of parchment over and over, never opening it. It was a small package, and had clearly been treated roughly; the outer edges were smeared with dust and sweat, and the whole bore the marks of crumpling, as if it had been screwed up and hidden.
‘Who gave you this?’ asked Alcibiades. His heart was beating; but his grey eyes rested steadily on the slave’s face, alert for any sign of a lie. They were alone in the room.
‘My master. He said you would reward me for my trouble.’
‘So I shall. Who is your master?’
The slave’s mouth shut in an obstinate line for an instant. Then he mentioned a name that Alcibiades did not know; a merchant from Argos. Now Alcibiades knew for certain who had sent the letter; but still he delayed.
‘Did any person see you come in?’
The slave’s eyes. flickered. ‘Only your servants.’
‘Good.’ He tossed a couple of gold pieces to the slave, whose eyes expanded at this prodigal generosity. Alcibiades said, his fingers resting lightly on the still unopened scroll: ‘It is fair recompense. I may well owe my life to you. Deliver that message to your master. And tell him—no. That’s all. You may go. The steward will show you a way to get out unseen.’
The slave bowed, and withdrew. Left to himself, Alcibiades still hesitated before slitting the seals. Finally he did so with a swift movement, and spread out the single sheet on his knee. It occurred to him that he had never seen Timaea’s handwriting before. He stared at the thick, square, clumsy letters for a moment without reading them.
‘You are in the most terrible danger,’ the letter began abruptly. He could almost hear the Queen’s voice as he traced out the words. ‘Agis has sent word to Astyochus at Chios to have you killed at once. This letter cannot reach you before Astyochus receives his orders. I only pray I may not be too late. For your own sake and mine, escape wherever you can.’ It was no more than he had expected; yet a shiver ran through him at the brief, stabbing sentences, and involuntarily he gave an uneasy glance round the room.
‘A Spartan officer under you has sent an incriminating letter to the Ephors. I cannot believe what was written in it; but they were only too willing to. They had their reasons. Two weeks ago our child was born: a son, as I had always wished. I lied to the Ephors and the Council. I told them it was a ten months’ birth. They were angry, but they could not prove my words false. Only Agis could do that, and he will never admit the truth. His position is uncertain enough. But he knows what everyone else suspects, and it was he who moved the decree of your death.
‘You can never return to Sparta, and I know now that I shall never see you again. But while the secret is kept, nothing can take away our child from me. They made me name him Leotychidas, but to me he will always remain Alcibiades.
‘I pray only that the Gods may grant you your life, and that you remember your son, and the woman who loved you.’
That was all; no word of blame or reproach. Underneath was scrawled hurriedly: ‘It will be useless to communicate with Endius. He has been stripped of his rank as Ephor, and is in danger of arrest.’ So the last link was broken.
Alcibiades rose unhurriedly and walked across the room, the letter still in his hand. The October nights were beginning to chill; there was a brazier of charcoal standing on its bronze tripod in one corner. Deliberately he tore up the message and dropped it, piece by piece, among the glowing coals. When it was entirely burnt he went into his bedchamber, stripped off his silken finery, and put on tunic, cloak, and riding boots. He knew now what he had to do. He stood looking round the room, his eye taking in its rococo luxury. Finally he picked up a little jade statuette of Aphrodite and slipped it into his wallet. Then he went out, walking quickly and decisively, and ordered a good riding-horse from the stables.
He went without a backward glance, riding eastward along the coast by the gulf; the sea bright in the moonlight beside him. When he reached the head of the estuary he turned north towards the Maeander. He crossed the river in the early hours of the morning; and by dawn he was over the Carian border into Lydia, riding unweariedly north to the great range of the Tmolus Mountains, that gleamed purple ahead of him in the sunrise. Over that range lay the city of Sardis, and a new chapter in his life. It was only then that he began to think about the son he had left behind in Sparta, and whom he would never see.
Chapter 33
The great hall of Tissaphernes’ palace in Sardis was thronged with Persian nobility. The floor was made of large slabs of alternating black and white marble; and on this the courtiers moved like highly coloured pawns in some gigantic game of chess. The ceiling was low, of carved and painted cedarwood, its outer panels blackened by the smoke from a score of braziers that flared beside the thick squat pillars. Behind these pillars, through the intricate latticework that served in lieu of windows, stretched the grey winter wastes of the Magnesian Plain. Occasionally a particularly violent blast of wind would penetrate the hall itself, shaking the woven hangings and sending the smoke from the braziers streaming among the assembled guests. On a dais at the far end of the hall stood a golden throne, emblazoned with the royal insignia of Persia; and in two rigid lines down the centre of the floor, a narrow space between them, stood the Royal trumpeters, all of them over six feet tall, resplendent in their red and blue quilted uniforms, great dyed ostrich plumes nodding above their heads.
Alcibiades stood with Tissaphernes below the dais, barely recognisable in the full regalia of a Persian nobleman: the starred blue tunic, with two gold daggers thrust crosswise through a wide sash, the heavy purple cloak trimmed with fur, the scarlet shoes with their curling points. Tissaphernes smiled at him, his black eyes hard and sparkling above his luxuriant beard. ‘I was thinking of the last time we met,’ he said. ‘Today you are as absolute a Persian—’
‘—as I was a Spartan then? You honour me.’
But the calculation lying behind the Persian’s complimentary words robbed them of their surface appreciativeness. A man who could change so easily was one to beware of.
‘Of course, the colour of your hair is strange,’ said Tissaphernes, eyeing his guest’s still half-grown golden beard. ‘But that can easily be changed . . . if the need arises.’
Every phrase he spoke seemed to have a twist of hidden meaning; Alcibiades, fresh from the bluntness of Chalcideus, was already feeling a little out of his depth.
‘You seem to have a genius for arriving everywhere at the most opportune moment,’ the Persian went on. ‘It is over a year since my court had the honour of a royal visit. I will not pretend,’ he added thoughtfully, ‘that I was not expecting you.’
Alcibiades looked at him. ‘I have my agents,
’ said Tissaphernes modestly; ‘though in this case they were hardly necessary.’
Again the bland and apparently harmless remark that left one with no answer. But on this occasion no answer was needed. There was a stir and a rustle at the far end of the hail; with a single movement the thin silver trumpets flashed up, and a long-drawn fanfare rang out. Slowly, with colourful dignity, the royal procession moved towards the dais; and as it passed, the crowd behind the trumpeters sank to their knees with a rustle of silk and a waving of plumes, and bowed their heads upon the marble floor before the tall, weak, indolent man, made taller still by the high double mitre upon his head, who now moved under a scarlet canopy held by eight great Nubian slaves: Darius the Second, King of Kings, King of the Lands, Lord of Persia, Emperor of the Medes, ruler over Lydia and the Isles of the East and West.
Slowly, infinitely slowly, he drew near, the courtiers falling like swathes of corn as he passed. Tissaphernes, his head bowed, was watching Alcibiades closely. Under that inscrutable gaze Alcibiades, trembling with shame and rage, went on his knees also; but the face that pressed against the marble was burning hot. The agony of Sicily, the foray outside the walls of Miletus, had cost him less than this one moment.
• • • • •
They sat cross-legged on crimson cushions to dine, dipping into a great common bowl of silver, slaves at their elbow to pour the wine, half-naked girls dancing with castanets in a cleared space in the middle of the floor, their skirts—peacock-green, amethyst, scarlet—swirling above the black and white squares. Through the hubbub of conversation one could always hear the thin screech of the flutes and the thudding of drums and tambourines.
