by Mary Renault
His absence in itself I should have thought nothing of; for he used to talk with all kinds of people, all about the City. I was not disturbed till I went out on the running-track, and saw among the onlookers a group of his friends, talking together like troubled men. At once it sprang into my mind that someone had denounced him, because he had taught Alkibiades, and refused to be initiated. Eryximachos the doctor had now joined the others. I could not endure my ignorance any longer. I leaned on one foot as I ran, stopped as if hurt, and went halting off the track. The trainer was too busy to come after me: I sat down near them to listen.
Eryximachos must just have asked whether Sokrates was ill; for Kriton was saying that nothing ever ailed him. He went on, “No, Sokrates is at home, sacrificing and praying for the army of the Athenians.” And Chairophon said, “His daimon has spoken to him.”
They exchanged looks. I too was silent, nursing my foot in my hand, and remembering the nest in the tree.
As I sat lost in thought, scarcely hearing the noises of the track, I became aware of someone’s shadow falling on me, and a voice. Looking up I saw Lysis son of Demokrates. He had been with Sokrates’ friends when I first sat down, but almost at once he had gone away. “I saw you twist your foot,” he said. “Does it hurt much? You ought to bind it with cold water, before it swells up.”
I thanked him stammeringly, being taken by surprise, and overwhelmed that such a person should speak to me. Seeing I had a long way to look up, he came down on one knee; I saw that he had a wet cloth in his hand, which he must just have got from the bath. He paused a moment and then said, “Shall I do it?”
At this I remembered that nothing was wrong with me. I was so ashamed at the thought of his finding it out, and thinking I had sat down out of weakness, or the fear of being outrun, that I felt my face and my whole body grow burning hot, and sat unable to answer anything. I thought he would be disgusted by my boorishness; but holding out the cloth he said gently, “If you would rather, then, do it yourself.”
All this while Midas, thinking me safe in the trainer’s care, had been taking his ease. Now for the first time he saw where I was. He came up breathless, almost snatched the cloth from Lysis’ hands, and said he would attend to it. He was doing no more than his duty; but, at the time, it seemed to me barbarous; I looked up at Lysis at a loss for words to excuse it. But he, without showing any offence, bade me goodbye smiling, and went away.
I was so angry and confused that I pushed Midas away from me, saying that my foot was better and I was now able to run. The impression this made on him, he is hardly to be blamed for. Going home he asked me whether I would take a beating from him, or would rather he told my father. I could imagine the kind of story he would make of it, and chose the first. Though he laid it well on, I bore it in silence; I was still wondering whether Lysis had thought me soft.
Meanwhile the City was on tiptoe, waiting to see Alkibiades brought to trial. The Argives and Mantineans demonstrated: it was Alkibiades they had come to fight under, they said, and threatened to march home. The seamen looked so ugly that the trierarchs feared a mutiny. Those who had been pressing hardest for the trial, grew suddenly less loud; and other speakers came forth, by whom inspired nobody knew. Claiming to be friends of the accused, they did not doubt that he could produce a good defence when called upon, and moved he be allowed to set forth upon the war he had prepared so ably. People waited to see him jump at this opportunity; but he sprang up before the Assembly, demanding with passion and eloquence to be tried. No one knew what to make of it. In the end, the second motion was carried.
The fleet sailed a few days later.
A friend of my father had a warehouse at Piraeus, and let us boys climb on the roof. We felt like gods looking down upon a voyage of the heroes. All the storeships had gone on to the assembly at Korkyra; only the bright, slim triremes were left in the bay. The breeze of early summer lifted their stern-pennants; eagles and dragons, dolphins and boars and lions, tossed their heads as the beaks met the swell.
The cheering began in the City, like the sound of a distant landslide, and crept towards us between the Long Walls. Then it roared through Piraeus; one could hear the music coming, and shield clashing on corselet to the beat. Now you could see between the Walls the helmet-crests moving, a river of them, a long snake bright with his new scales in springtime, bronze and gold, purple and red. Sparks of light seemed to dance above it, the early sun catching the points of many thousand spears; the dust-cloud shone like powdered gold.
On the roofs about us the foreigners were chattering together, marvelling at the beauty and might of the army which the City could still send forth after so many years of war. Two Nubian slaves were making their eyes white and saying “Auh! Auh!” We cheered till our throats ached. Xenophon’s voice sounded already almost like a man’s.
The troops deployed upon the water-front and on the quays; they filed along gang-planks, or were loaded into boats with their gunwales dipping, and ferried to the ships. Kinsmen and friends ran up for last farewells. An old man would bless his son, a lad run to his father with some gift the mother had sent after him; or two lovers might be parting, the youth being too young to go with his friend. That day not all the tears had been left at home with the women. But to me it seemed the greatest of all festivals, better than the Panathenaia in the Great Year. As the proverb tells us, war is sweet to the untried.
Noise sounded again between the walls. Someone shouted “Long life to the Generals!” We began to hear horses and to see their dust.
Presently there passed below us Lamachos on his borrowed hack; tall and saturnine, greeting old soldiers when they cheered him, indifferent to the rest. Then Nikias, gravely splendid, his white hair garlanded, fresh from the sacrifice, his soothsayer riding by him with the sacred tripod, knives and bowl. The leaden tinge of skin that he always had only added dignity to him. People reminded each other as he passed of the ancient oracle, that in Sicily the Athenians should win lasting fame.
There was a restless pause then, like the quiet before the sea gets up. And the many-voiced muttering that came nearer was like the sound of a great wave, sucking a stony beach, and drawing the pebbles resistless in its wake. Then a youth with a clear voice shouted, like a battle-paean, “Alkibiades!”
He burst on us like the sun. His armour was worked with golden stars; his purple cloak hung as if a sculptor had set the folds. His groom rode behind him with his famous shield, the City’s scandal and delight, blazoned with Eros wielding a thunderbolt.
His opened helmet showed his face, the profile of Hermes, and the short curled beard. His chin was up; his blue eyes, wide and clear, seemed open on an emptiness demanding to be filled. It seems to me now that they were saying, “You wished for me, Athenians; I am here. Do not question me, do not hurt me; I am the wish sprung from your heart, and if you wound me your heart will bleed for it. Your love made me. Do not take it away; for without love I am a temple forsaken by its god, where dark Alastor will enter. It was you, Athenians, who conjured me, a daimon whose food is love. Feed me, then, and I will clothe you with glory, and show you to yourselves in the image of your desire. I am hungry: feed me. It is too late to repent.”
The crowd murmured and swayed, like a moving shoal drawn by the tide. Then from some doorway a hetaira leaned out, and blew him a kiss. He waved, his clouded eyes warming like the sea in spring; and the cheering broke forth, and roared about him. His smile appeared, like the smile of a boy crowned at his first Games, young and enchanted, embracing all the world; and they cheered him out of sight. Adonis had passed through the street before him; mashed by the horse-hoofs, the strewn anemones stained the dust like blood.
The Generals joined their ships, the bustle grew less and ended. A trumpet blew a long call. Then one heard only a dying mutter, the slap of the sea on the jetties, the cry of gulls, and the bark of some dog grown uneasy in the hush. The small clear voice of a distant herald cried the Invocation. It was taken up in the ships and on the
shore; the sound flowed and rolled like surf; on each poop gold or silver flashed, as the trierarch lifted his cup to pour the offering. Then ringing across the water came the paean, and the shouts of the pilots, bidding the ships away. The chantymen began to give the time to the rowers; up went the great sails painted with suns and stars and birds. So they put out to sea, the crews answering song for song, and the pilots calling out to each other challenges to race. I saw Nikias’ white beard flutter as he prayed with raised hands; and on the poop of Alkibiades’ trireme, which already was standing away, a little shining figure like a golden image, no bigger than the Adonis dolls the women had carried in the streets.
The sails filled; the oar-blades all together beat up and down, bright-feathered wings; like swans the ships flew singing towards the islands. Tears stung in my eyes. I wept for the beauty of it, like many more. Happy for the Athenians, if the tears that followed afterwards had been like mine.
5
QUITE SOON AFTER THIS, I got the news that Kritias was in prison.
An informer swore to seeing him, on the night when the Herms were broken, helping to assemble and instruct the gang, in the portico of the Theatre. The moon had been bright, the man said, and he could name most of the leaders.
I could not imagine, when I heard this, why I had not known it must be Kritias from the very first; for, being young, I supposed he was the only person of his kind in the world. When I walked past the prison there was a knot of women outside, some of them with children, sobbing and wailing. But I could not believe that Kritias had anyone to weep for him.
My triumph was brief, however, for his cousin Andokides, who was one of the accused, offered a full confession in return for immunity. The substance of it was that he knew about the plot, but had an alibi; Kritias was innocent too. Then he named the guilty ones, including some of his kinsmen. These were put to death at once; so was the first informer, for perjury. Some people said Andokides had made up the whole statement for the sake of the immunity, rather than risk his trial. No one knows the truth to this very day.
The dead were scarcely cold, when news came that the Thebans were on the frontier, making ready to invade.
We had just sat down in school when this was shouted outside. Armour began to sound in the street, as the citizens turned out to the mustering-places. Our trainer looked in, calling out to the master that he was off. Then the herald’s trumpet blew from the temple roof of the Twins, calling the horsemen. At this Mikkos, knowing he could do no more with us, said we should be wanted at home, and dismissed the class.
I found my father standing in his armour, slinging on his sword, while Sostias brought him his spears to choose from. He said, “Since you are here, Alexias, go to the stable and look over Phoenix for me. See that his frogs are clear, and the big saddle-cloth is strapped on to cover his belly.”
When I got back he had his helmet on. He looked very tall.
“Father,” I said, “can I ride Korax and come too?”—“Certainly not. If things go badly and they call for boys of your age, go where you are told, and obey your orders.” Then he put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Though we may be here or there, defending the City we shall be side by side.” I replied that I hoped he would have no cause to be ashamed of me. When he had embraced my mother, she gave him his knapsack with three days’ food in it. He stooped under the lintel, then vaulting on his spear leaped upon Phoenix, and rode away.
The City seethed all day. Everyone thought the Thebans had had a signal from the conspirators, and that the plot had come out in the nick of time. Some said it was the Spartans who were coming, and the plan had been to open the gates to them. The Senate marched up to the High City and sat all night.
My mother and I worked about the house, making everything fast. She talked cheerfully to the slaves, and said she remembered her own mother doing all this when she was a child. I went with our old slave Sostias to buy food in case of siege. But when dark fell and the troops were still standing by, I got tired of sitting indoors; so I said, “Father would be glad of some wine, I expect, since everything is quiet.”
She gave me leave. I said she must keep Midas at hand, so, lighting a torch, I went up alone to the Anakeion. The temple precinct was full of the smell of horses, and the sound of their treading and snorting. High above the picket-lines I could see the Great Twin Brethren, the friends of the horseman, leading their bronze chargers against the stars. I put out my torch, for one could see by the light of the watch-fires; and I asked for my father by his name, and his father’s name, and the name of his deme.
Someone said he was standing guard at the northeast corner of the precinct; and going that way I saw him on the wall, leaning upon his spear with firelight on his armour, like a warrior done in red on a black vase. I went up and said, “Sir, Mother has sent you some wine.” He said he would be glad of it later; I put it down, and was going to bid him goodnight when he said, “You may stay for a while, and watch with me.”
I climbed up and stood beside him. One could not see far, for the night was moonless. No one was very near; as it got cooler, they were drawing round the fires, or into the temple. I felt I should say something to him; but we had never talked much together. At last I asked him if he expected an attack in the morning. “We shall see,” he said. “Confusion in a city breeds false alarms. Still they may be coming, in the hope we have not enough men left to man the walls.” He did not look round as he talked, keeping his eyes on the dark, as men do on watch, lest the firelight dull them. Presently I asked, “How long will it take the Army, sir, to conquer Sicily?” He answered, “Only the gods know.”
I was surprised and fell silent. After a moment he said, “The Syracusans had not injured us, nor threatened us. The war was with the Spartans.”—“But,” I said, “when we have beaten the Syracusans, and have got their ships and harbour and the gold, shan’t we finish the Spartans easily?”—“Maybe. But time was when we fought only to hold off the barbarian, or to defend the City, or for justice’s sake.”
In most men I should have thought such words poor-spirited; for I was used to hearing that we fought to make the City great, and leader of the Hellenes. But when I saw him standing in his armour, I knew not what to think.
He said, “In the third year of the war, when you were still at nurse, the Lesbians, our subject allies, rose against us. They were reduced without much trouble; and the Assembly voting on their fate thought it wise to make an example of them. The men of fighting age should be put to the sword, and the rest of the people sold as slaves. So the galley set out for Lesbos with this decree. But that night we lay sleepless, or started up from sleep, hearing the cries of the dying, the shrieks of women, and children’s weeping, still in our ears. In the morning we all returned to the Assembly, and when we had rescinded the decree, we offered rewards to the rowers of the second galley to overtake the first. They did it; for the first had laboured along as if sick men pulled the oars, so much their errand oppressed them. When they were overhauled at Mytilene, the Athenians felt reprieved as much as the Lesbians; they rejoiced together and shared their wine. But last year, the Melians, who owed us nothing, being Doric, chose to pay tribute to their mother-city rather than to us. What we did, you know.”
I took courage to say he had never related it to me. He answered, “When you sacrifice, pray the gods that it may never fall to your lot, either to suffer it, or to do it.”
I had never guessed that such things were in his mind. It was Alkibiades who had moved the Melians’ punishment. “The gods punish hubris in men,” he said. “So why should we think they praise it in cities?”
Just then someone relieved his watch. We went to one of the fires, where he shared his wine with some friends, and presented me to them. “You can see,” he said, “that he has not done growing yet, from the size of his hands and feet.” Then I felt that he was apologising for me, because anyone could see I should never be as big as he was; I remembered how he had wanted to expose me at my birth;
so as soon as it was civil, I took my leave.
I was kindling my torch at a fire that was burning near the statue of the Twins, when a man, who had just come down from the temple, walked up to me. He had his helmet off, and turning with my torch alight I saw that it was Lysis. I had seen him before in armour, exercising with the horsemen; he looked very well in it. He said, “Did you find your father, son of Myron?” I thanked him and said yes. He stood for a moment, so that I almost thought he had come out on purpose to speak to me; but he only said, “Good,” and went back up the steps again.
Next day no more had been heard of the enemy, and the troops went home. The next storm to shake the City concerned Alkibiades.
His sail had scarcely dropped under the horizon before the informers crept out. The tale of the Eleusis party was told in full. Even the woman, whose role it would be unholy to hint at (let the Twice-Born guess; they will be right), was found and induced to testify. Now that his face was out of sight, and his voice out of hearing, everyone saw the madness of trusting the army to such a man. So the state galley, the Salaminia, was sent to fetch him and his friend Antiochos the pilot, who had been denounced too. He was not to be seized, however, lest trouble with the seamen and the Argives should break out again. The trierarch of the Salaminia was to offer him civilly the trial he had asked for, and convoy him back in his own ship.
I remember, on the day of the decree, coming in to find my father standing by the big press with a painted winecup in his hands. It was one he rarely used, for it was valuable, one of the finest pieces of the master Bacchios. In the bowl was a picture, red on black, of Eros coursing a hare; it was inscribed on the one side MYRON and on the other ALKIBIADES. My father was turning it in his hands, like a man in two minds; when he saw me, however, he put it back in the press.
Nothing but Alkibiades was talked of in the City. In the street, the palaestra and the markets, old tales were told of his insolence and riot. Those who had once spoken for him would only debate, now, how he came to be what he was, after being brought up by so good a man as Perikles. The answer was always the same: the Sophists had corrupted him. They had taken him up as a lad, caught by his beauty and quick mind; they had puffed him up with vanity, taught him impious free-thinking (here someone usually quoted The Clouds) until he dared to chop logic with Perikles himself. After which he, having got from them what served his turn, laughed at their talk of wisdom and virtue, and went away.
