Achilles His Armour

by Peter Green

  ‘And what difference will that make? I have no doubt a report has gone off to Athens already.’ He spoke without heat; almost with indifference.

  ‘Then you’d, better send your own. It may not convince them, but it’s better than doing nothing. Antiochus is dead. The whole blame can be put on his shoulders. And’—Adeimantus hesitated—‘if you could reverse the result of this affair—if you could persuade Lysander to come out and fight the whole fleet—’

  ‘You must think Lysander is as great a fool as I am. Do you honestly believe he’d fall into that trap?’

  ‘Perhaps not. But’—Adeimantus looked squarely at him—‘if all you say is true, it’s your only chance. You’ve got to do it . . .’ He saw a hopeless lassitude creeping over Alcibiades’ face, and went on desperately: ‘If you don’t care for yourself; you owe a duty to Athens. If you give up now, who is there to take your place? You let yourself be pulled down by petty intriguers once before. Are you going to do it again?’

  ‘I shall have no choice. There is no one so utterly defenceless as an unsuccessful hero.’ His face twisted into a smile, and he said: ‘Don’t worry. I shall do all I can—all you have suggested. But don’t ask me to believe that any good will come of it. I came back to Athens once—against all hope or expectation. It would be demanding too much of the Gods to hope that the miracle could be worked again . . .’ He straightened up and added: Come. You can help me write my report. No one will credit it; but at least we shall make it as convincing as we can.’

  ‘Couldn’t you go back to Athens now—put your case before the Assembly, ask for money—’

  ‘Too late. They are probably drafting my impeachment at this moment.’

  ‘The fleet supported you before. They may do so again.’

  ‘Dear Adeimantus. You are very loyal. But you blind yourself to reality. You know perfectly well that the fleet is on the verge of mutiny. They expected victories and booty. All they have got is defeat—and no pay. Their loyalty is not like yours. It’s for sale. And Lysander can bid higher than I can. Besides, the crews are thick with Cleophon’s agents . . .’

  ‘When will you sail for Ephesus?’ They were walking slowly, heads bent; one or two lounging soldiers stared at them with barely veiled hostility as they passed. The news must have got out already.

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘Will you . . . take me with you?’

  Alcibiades shook his head. ‘Not this time,’ he said. ‘I have asked too much of you already. I’m not going to drag you down with me. You know what this voyage may end in.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘And you still want to come?’

  ‘Yes: I still want to come.’

  Alcibiades brushed his hand quickly across his eyes and said in an unsteady voice: ‘What a fool you are . . . No. This time I sail alone. There is more useful work you can do than to make an empty gesture of defiance. And in the years to come you will know that I was right.’

  They had reached the entrance to his tent. Alcibiades called to his slave and sent him for a flagon of wine. ‘At least,’ he said, ‘our last joint dispatch must be a good one.’

  They went inside without speaking.

  • • • • •

  In a tavern on the Piraeus—the same tavern where Alcibiades had plotted with Cleon so many years before—Cleophon and the foxy-faced sailor sat deep in conference. They spoke in low voices, with occasional glances towards the dock-workers and longshoremen who were drinking and singing at a nearby table. Outside it was raining; a heavy, hard-driven storm from the sea, that blew in vicious gusts along the gleaming cobbles of the quayside.

  ‘You’ve got all you want now,’ the sailor was saying. The sky was so dark that the lamps had been lit in the low room; their flickering flames, caught in the draught that whined through every chink in the walls, played oddly across his pock-marked countenance.

  ‘This defeat is just the thing to rouse the people. He came back from Phocaea two days later and tried to draw Lysander out to battle—’

  ‘Without success, I imagine?’

  ‘What do you think? Lysander knew when he was well off. He sat there behind his boom and did nothing. Alcibiades was helpless. He waited there for as long as he could, and then made sail for Samos.’

  ‘What’s he been doing since then?’

  ‘Just what you hoped. You know how desperately short he was of money. He tried to raid Cyme—’

  ‘Ah. A free ally . . . Excellent. I have no doubt they will send an embassy to lodge a complaint here soon. Did he get what he was looking for?’

  ‘No. They retreated into the town and barricaded it. As you know, he hasn’t any siege equipment. His infantry had a nasty defeat under the walls. After that he gave it up and went back to Samos.’

  Cleophon sat silent for a moment, lost in thought. But when he at length spoke, his eyes were gleaming with triumph.

  ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘We’ve got him now. But we shall have to go about matters carefully. If he came back now, as a general, his personal prestige might still undo everything. We must procure an immediate impeachment. Then he’s helpless. If he returns to stand trial, he’s sure to be condemned. If he doesn’t—and I think that’s more likely—we’re rid of him anyway, and he stands convicted by his own action.’

  ‘Are you sure we can get an impeachment?’

  ‘I think so. But it’ll have to be prepared in the right way. You can help there. You must speak in the Assembly. I will make special arrangements for you. You must present him as a lazy, careless commander, ready to delegate his authority to inefficient subordinates while he spends his time in Ionia with . . . with foreign prostitutes. A picture of gross debauch. Everyone’ll believe that . . .’ He grinned coarsely. ‘There are other matters you can raise as well. Why did he build himself these fortresses in Thrace if he had nothing to fear from his countrymen? They’re a plain sign that he contemplated desertion a long time ago. What were the details of the private treaty he made with Pharnabazus? You see how it can be done.’

  ‘I think so . . . It’s a pity the two charges of impiety against him have been annulled.’

  Cleophon rose to his feet. ‘I think we have enough to be going on with,’ he said. ‘Come and see me at my house tomorrow. By then I shall have arranged for you to address the Assembly. If your reception is favourable, I shall move for an immediate impeachment.’

  ‘What about his friends? Thrasybulus, Adeimantus—’

  ‘If he falls, they’ll fall with him. That’ll be doubly useful. It’ll mean an emergency election for the Board of Generals. We should be able to put up what candidates we like . . .’

  They went out together, still talking. The rain continued to fall more heavily than ever. Soon, imperceptibly, the lowering sky began to merge into the darkness of nightfall.

  • • • • •

  Cleophon’s plans went without a single hitch; and on the very eve of the elections he had an unexpected stroke of luck. Agis, still holding out at Decelea, launched a strong and completely unexpected attack on the city, which was only just beaten off. In his elated mood Cleophon attributed this to divine intervention. It was in a mood of frightened, vengeful hysteria that the Assembly met; and the issue was not in doubt for a moment. Alcibiades, Adeimantus and Thrasybulus were stripped of their commands; and no sooner had the vote been taken than Cleophon rose to his feet and indicted the fallen Commander-in-Chief for dereliction of duty, incompetence, negligence, trafficking with the enemy, and many other things besides. The whole count took nearly five minutes to read out; and at the end it was immediately and automatically approved. The Assembly broke up feeling remarkably pleased with itself.

  • • • • •

  Alcibiades sat at the door of his tent watching the crew of his flagship silently preparing for departure. It was nearly dark now, and the lanterns gleamed like marsh-lights by the quayside. Even they . . . he thought. It had cost him nearly all the money he had to buy their sile
nce, to persuade them to put to sea. Yet I knew this was coming. I could do nothing to avoid it. He saw again in his mind the devoted agent who had brought him the news. An Arcadian he had once done a good turn to—carelessly, without thinking; forgotten as soon as done. Now this man had put to sea in a small boat; braving the winter storms, sailing day and night to warn him. I have forgotten the good and the bad together, he said to himself; I have always forgotten the past. But it is the past which condemned me; and now it is the past that may win me reprieve.

  All the blame is upon my shoulders. I was General Extraordinary; I was solely responsible. Did they think of that when they elected me? Responsible . . . not only for myself. For Adeimantus and Thrasybulus. All they did was to be loyal to me. That was enough to condemn them. Thrasyllus is a general again now. There is no right or wrong left any more; only the strong and the weak. Thrasyllus took his chance.

  He glanced round to where, in the light of the single lamp, the Arcadian sat leaning against the side of the tent polishing his sword. Alcibiades felt strangely disturbed at the sight of him. When he had told his tale, he had waited, silent. Alcibiades had offered him money, but he had refused it. ‘I only wish to stay with you,’ he had said. And then: ‘You have need of friends.’ From that moment he had never left Alcibiades’ presence. Silent, darkfaced; waiting. He had stayed awake all night with a drawn sword while Alcibiades slept.

  I know nothing about him, Alcibiades thought. Not even his name. He might be any age. Thirty? Fifty? That rugged, strong face, framed in unruly black hair, asked nothing; told nothing. Only the eyes, deep-set and restless, betrayed their concern. His friendship conveyed itself by actions that needed no explanation: he might have been a deaf-mute. Here is another life for which I am responsible. Yet it has been placed willingly in my hands.

  It was getting late. The Arcadian, satisfied with his sword, thrust it back into its scabbard. The sharp metallic hiss cut across Alcibiades’ reflections like the blade of the sword itself. Alcibiades watched him methodically collect and pack away the few belongings that lay strewn about the tent. He had not asked permission; and now it seemed superfluous. Alcibiades threw his heavy cloak about his shoulders and strode out into the night.

  A foot chinked on a loose stone, and a shadow loomed up beside him: the coxswain of his flagship. Behind him Alcibiades was aware of the Arcadian, a silent breathing ghost, alert for any hint of treachery.

  ‘The ship is ready, General. The wind is set fair for the north. With luck we should make Thrace in three days.’

  He hesitated, not sure if Alcibiades had understood him. ‘You must come quickly,’ he said. ‘Any moment we may be discovered . . .’

  Alcibiades smiled in the darkness.

  ‘Have no fear,’ he said. ‘I will come with you now.’

  They began to move down the winding path towards the harbour, stumbling occasionally in the blackness. Behind him Alcibiades heard the footsteps of the Arcadian, firm, reassuring: the last barrier between him and the treachery of the night, the knife in the back, the ultimate betrayal.

  Chapter 38

  Alcibiades to Adeimantus: written from the fortress of Bisanthe in the Thracian Chersonese.

  ‘You see I am not dead; though I might as well have been for the life I have led. I should have written to you long ago. Recently a wandering merchant passed here, and told me you were alive and well in Athens. He told me too of a great battle that had been fought off the Arginusae Islands, but he knew no details of it. I made him drunk and sent him away. He was a fool, but he pricked my conscience.

  ‘It will be hard for you to understand how I could have cut myself off so completely. I had no agents to keep me informed of the events of the outside world; I wished to know nothing, to be left to live my own life here, forgotten. But time hung heavy on my hands. All through that first dreadful winter, my only guests Thracian chieftains, I dreamed and drank and sat before the fire, between sleeping and waking, wrapped in furs, my strength all gone out of me. But it was more than the cold that I was shutting out behind those bleak stone walls.

  ‘I have been whiling away some of my time by reading history. Do you remember how the great Miltiades set himself up as a king in these very parts more than a hundred years ago? His rule there lasted for three generations. I began to ask myself why I should not do the same thing. To be King of the Chersonese. It was an amusing idea: it gave me something to live for. And then, as my plans succeeded, I began to want more. I hardly need to tell you what. When I stepped ashore here after leaving Samos, alone and by night, I had given up all hope of ever seeing Athens again. Even now I tell myself I am only playing with fantasies. But . . . a Thracian alliance on the Hellespont? It’s at least possible. Tell me that it’s possible, that this is not merely a wild dream spun out of loneliness and incurable ambition. And tell me what men say of me in Athens, or whether they have forgotten me altogether.

  ‘It is winter again now, and I am alone once more. I have little to do but read and sleep—and hope. Write to me soon and tell me the truth. I shall not fear it, whatever it may be.

  ‘I must close this letter now. A ship’s captain who has put in for two days on the coast nearby has promised to see that it reaches you. It is a tenuous link. But it is all I can do.

  ‘The Gods go with you always.’

  • • • • •

  Adeimantus to Alcibiades: written in Athens.

  ‘Your letter was all the more welcome for being unexpected; unhoped-for almost. But in one respect you are wrong. Far from having forgotten you, the people, think and talk of no one else.

  ‘When you left Samos your subordinate Conon was elected in your place. Thrasybulus and I returned to Athens, after some misgivings. But for once we chose correctly. We had been deposed from our commands, but no further action was taken against us.

  ‘As a naval commander Conon was hopeless. He was caught out at sea by the Spartans, chased into the harbour of Mitylene on Lesbos, and blockaded there. He lost thirty out of his seventy ships in the process. But he did manage to get one away to bring the news to Athens.

  ‘You can imagine the, panic that resulted. The Aegean was wide open. I must confess I admired the energy that conjured a new fleet out of nowhere. They called every galley into action that they could lay hands on. Most of them were almost unfit for service. In the end over a hundred were ready. Every citizen who could bear arms was pressed into the fleet. Theramenes, Thrasybulus and I went as plain commanders of vessels. They offered freedom to all slaves and resident aliens who would man the oars and fight. They stripped the temples of their gold and silver treasures to pay them all. In the end there was no one left in the city but old men, priests, women and children, and a handful of cavalry.

  ‘We picked up a few reinforcements at Samos, only to learn that the Spartans had put out from Mitylene and were sailing south to intercept us. That night we anchored off the Arginusae Islands, as your merchant told you. We could see the lights of the Spartan ships about eight miles away.

  ‘The next morning the weather was terrible. There was a heavy sea with high choppy waves and driving sleet, and a gale blowing in from the Gulf. We never thought they would attack in that, but they did.

  ‘The sea was so rough that ordered tactics were impossible. I don’t think anyone to this day knows how or why the Spartans were beaten. But we had our losses as well. Thirteen ships were sunk, and twelve lay sinking. In that sea they hardly stood a chance of survival.

  ‘What happened then has been argued about ever since. Certainly the remains of our fleet put in at once to Arginusae. The sinking ships were left there. I think everyone turned a blind eye to them. We were all deadly tired, and most of us were sea-sick as well. When we got ashore a fine argument started; by then some of us had recovered our sense of duty a little.

  ‘The generals—especially Thrasyllus—were all for pressing on north and relieving Conon at Mitylene at once. There was only a skeleton squadron left blockading him. All the tim
e we could see the wrecks sinking out in the channel. Thank Heaven we couldn’t hear the cries of the men on them; the gale was still running too high.

  ‘Thrasybulus solved the problem—and incidentally signed his own death-warrant at the same time. He pointed out that we had quite enough ships both to relieve Conon and pick up the survivors. Theramenes joined him. Thrasyllus, who was in a poisonously bad temper by this time, told him to take forty ships and do what he could. They came back empty-handed. They said the gale was still too strong for them to have done anything. It may be so; but I have my suspicions. At any rate it was calm enough in the afternoon for the Spartans to send a small boat to Mitylene to tell the blockaders what had happened. What they did then was rather clever—for Spartans. They pretended they had won a great victory. The boat was crowned with garlands; the whole of the evening was spent in sacrifices and feasting. Conon believed it all—even the loudly shouted claim that every Athenian ship had been sunk. He changed his mind when the whole squadron put out to sea as soon as it was dark. He could have captured them all, and he did nothing.

  ‘To add insult to injury, the Spartans had left a party ashore when they went, and this detachment very coolly set fire to Conon’s camp. The next day he put out for Samos, found us refitting there, and learnt the truth. The dispatches that were sent home announcing the victory were notable for the details they omitted. Among other things, we had lost five thousand men—and near a third of them were full citizens.

  ‘Now we come to the really grim part of the story. I have no personal complaint to make: I did very well out of it. As I was the only senior officer who had not taken a leading part in these rather disgraceful proceedings, I was re-elected General while still in the field. With the others it was a different matter.

  ‘As soon as some rumours of the truth got back to the City, they recalled every general who had taken part in the battle, as well as Thrasybulus and Theramenes, who had failed to rescue the survivors. I went too, to give evidence.