The Athenian Women

by Alessandro Barbero

  A buzz of surprise accompanied this declaration.

  “And how?” asked the young man, in a defiant tone.

  “Here’s how. We’ll start by just killing a few. We need the people to be afraid and understand that the times are changing, but they must not know where the blow is coming from, nor who the next one will strike. The city is big, no one will know how many we are, no one will know whether they can trust their neighbors. Then, when suspicion reigns everywhere and everyone is afraid for their own personal safety, we’ll say that the war is going badly, that we need more soldiers and more ships, and that we’re going to have to suspend the jurors’ stipend, because we’ve run out of money. We’ll say that it’s just a temporary suspension, of course. If we’re clever how we go about it, no one will dare to object, and the assembly will approve.”

  They all listened, openmouthed.

  “Then we’ll introduce another motion. We’ll say that the size of the assembly needs to be reduced, and that we can’t extend the right to vote to one and all. That the debates last too long, that the decisions are dragged out. We’ll propose a reduction of the assembly to, let’s say, five thousand men. Getting the motion passed will be no easy matter, but we should be able to do it. Without a stipend, many people won’t even come in to vote, and we’ll introduce the motion after the fleet has set sail, of course. It’s going to be a numerous fleet: we’re going to have to make an effort, we who are footing the bill. The more oarsmen there are aboard the ships, far from the city, the easier it will be to get the assembly to vote the way we want.”

  “Five thousand men are still a lot, o Kritias!”

  The orator shrugged his shoulders.

  “The Five Thousand will never meet. First we’d have to draw up the list, and who’ll do that? We’ll propose electing a restricted council. Four hundred men, just like in the old days. And once that council has assumed full powers . . . ”

  There was no need for Kritias to say any more. He looked around. Is everyone with me? Yes, everyone’s with me. But let’s put them to the test.

  “Whoever is with me will drink with me once more. I know of no oath more sacred. O Eubulus, send in the young men again and let us drink!”

  “Boys,” Eubulus called. “Lovely young boys! Where have they gotten to? It’s always like this, here in this house it is they who command. We should just be grateful, I suppose, that they even brought us anything to eat,” he joked, good-naturedly. He stood up from the cushions, pushed the curtain aside, and called loudly. One after the other the young boys returned, their lips gleaming with grease: they had taken advantage of their brief break to go lick the plates.

  The goblet was filled, and Kritias was the first to drink.

  “I’ve spoken, I’ve said all I needed to say, so, Eubulus, I renounce my reign. Now you set the rules by which we can continue to drink!”

  “I believe that many others are going to want to speak their minds, Kritias. Therefore, friends, if you are in agreement, here is what I would say: everyone can speak, just once, briefly, and after each one speaks, we shall drink.”

  “Take it easy, o Eubulus, we’ve already downed four goblets, and you didn’t water it much at all!” a voice protested.

  “That’s fine with me!” Kritias declared; and he settled back on the cushions.

  In the kitchen, Andromache and the cook had started to clean up and put away the things that were no longer needed: it threatened to be a long night, and they might as well get as much done now as they could.

  “But aren’t they going to sing tonight?” the cook wondered at a certain point.

  Andromache shook her head.

  “Tonight they talk,” she said, sarcastically. And she thought to herself: they always talk too much in this city. It seemed that everyone always had something to say, no one had ever taught them the virtues of silence. For someone who had grown up where she had, Athens was a strange city. Even so, though, this evening’s entertainment was proceeding very unusually. That during a drinking party—and with so many guests, for that matter!—after the hymn to the god sung at the beginning they should have stopped singing entirely, and that no one had then challenged the others to sing one of the older, interminable songs of the heroes to prove that they remembered every last one of the words, was abnormal, even in this city of chatterboxes. There’s something strange in the air tonight, thought Andromache, uneasily. Something strange in this house, and also in this city, for a while now. She didn’t leave the house often enough to know more, but still, she could sense it instinctively. She went back to fussing around the grill where the meat had been cooked, and then noticed the cook casting sidelong glances at her.

  “Why are your eyes so wide open? You look like a ship to me! Go on, get to work . . . ”

  And in fact, it’s well known that on the prow of all ships two large eyes are painted, one on each side, and woe if it were done any other way: ships have to be able to find their way home, after all. She was reminded of the war trireme that carried her back to Athens; clenching her teeth to ward off the memory, she started cleaning again.

  The first of the guests who wished to speak was so completely in agreement with Kritias that he hardly even knew what to say: he was overbrimming with enthusiasm, but he lacked the words to express it. His speech was so brief that the slave boys hardly had time to come back and refill the krater and mix the water and the wine. The second speaker was less effusive. Measuring his words, he said that he too was in agreement, of course. “And I understand that if there are only a few of us here, it’s because you’ve only wanted to invite reliable friends. But how can we involve more people without someone, sooner or later, giving us away? Under every stone, there might be a scorpion!”

  “I’ve thought that over,” Kritias replied, speaking slowly. “And I tell you that we must begin immediately, and put a quick end to it. Each of us frequents other companies, just like this one of ours this evening, and there they can speak freely. But we’ll present the proposal to have the fleet set sail earlier than usual this year to the assembly in the next few days. And we’ll have to unleash the terror immediately, as well. While the scorpions are still fast asleep!”

  The third to take the floor was a man that Kritias knew only by sight and respected very little, Euthydemus, a shipowner from Phalerum. He insisted that demolishing democracy wouldn’t be enough. They needed to get rid of manual laborers entirely.

  “Forget about citizens! This too is sheer madness! Didn’t the Sophists explain clearly that all men by their very nature are equal, even slaves? Well, if that’s true, then let’s introduce genuine equality: all the artisans and craftsmen, the oarsmen, the fieldhands ought to be made public slaves!”

  The speeches ensued, each more heated than the last, and as is sometimes the case, the discussion took an unexpected turn. The following orator began to rail against the slaves. In a democracy, it’s clear, they are the ones who truly take advantage; and isn’t it time to be done with it?

  “If we keep it up, in this city it will be the slaves who call the shots! These days, if you dare to strike a slave in the street, you quickly hear the muttering begin: enemy of the people! Well, what’s the difference between a slave and a miserable wretch who’s sold his children, and who would sell out the city itself for a drachma? You meet them in the street and there’s no telling them apart!”

  Another one broke in without waiting for the goblet to finish the round, and he was given the floor.

  “And if there were only a single citizen in the street willing to yield the right of way to those who are their betters. But no, they just continue on their way! If democracy goes on like this, before long not even a donkey will make way for us!”

  Another wanted to put in his piece.

  “What about women? They walk the streets with veils over their heads, the wives of paupers who have no idea how they’ll eat dinner tonig
ht, and still they give you evil looks: they’re citizens too!”

  Befuddled by the wine, Kritias listened, and was amazed: why are they all constantly talking about the street? Sure, the fact is that in your own home, you give the orders, but once you go out amongst the others, you realize just what democracy really means . . .

  Once they had all spoken, the goblet made one last round. After drinking, Eubulus turned gray and hastily waved to one of the boys. The slave boy hurried over with a basin and a chicken feather and held Eubulus’s head while his master, eyes streaming, shoved the feather down his throat and threw up. A few other guests followed suit; splatters of vomit hit the floor, and the dogs hurried over to lick it up.

  “But by the gods, I was forgetting the very best!” Eubulus exclaimed, slightly sobered up, adjusting the myrtle-leaf crown that had been knocked askew. “We’ve heard a great many words, and we can safely say that we’re all in agreement, but now it’s time to have some fun!”

  One of the boys ran out of the room; a moment later, the curtain was pulled back and two flute girls came in. While waiting outside they had warded off the chill with heavy cloaks, but as they came in they dropped their cloaks and stood there clad only in very light, almost transparent chitons. The guests cheered in approval. Usually hosts limited themselves to a single flute girl: Eubulus had decided to overdo it. The young women bowed and awaited orders.

  “What do you say, shall we have them play in the Doric style? That way we can relax, after all, the night is long!” Eubulus proposed.

  Kritias approved.

  “In the Doric style!” ordered the master of the house. The two double flutes intoned a slow, dreamy tune, and everyone settled back on their cushions to enjoy it thoroughly. Even the slave boys, in the darkness, sat down on the floor, some of them snuggling with the dogs. On the beds, one pair of lovers engaged in some more daring displays of affection, and soon the other couple was following suit. Kritias, content, was on the verge of drifting off; but he snapped awake and made sure that the young boy he’d singled out was still close at hand. As the melody ended, Eubulus ordered: “A drink for the young women!”

  The flute girls drank obediently. Their clients liked to get them drunk, it was a part of their job.

  “Another piece . . . but this time just one, it’s getting late. You, what’s your name?” Eubulus asked the more uninhibited of the two.

  “Red Mullet!” laughed the young woman.

  “Fine! What about your girlfriend here?”

  “Little Cuttlefish.”

  “Even better! Fine, Red Mullet, you play, and you, Little Cuttlefish, get busy. And you, little boys, out you go, this is no place for you!”

  The slave boys, elbowing each other as they went, filed out of the room, But Kritias grabbed the one he’d spotted as the boy went past.

  “O Eubulus! Do they really all have to leave? I ask an exception!”

  Eubulus laughed.

  “I ought to take offense, seeing that I’ve already paid for the flute girls, but a guest’s wish is law! You, stay here.”

  The chosen boy smiled timidly, and sat down on the floor by Kritias’s side. The man reached out a hand to caress his wooly hair. Kritias’s head was spinning a little, and perhaps before long he’d get someone to help him vomit, but he was satisfied. How nice, he thought: this evening couldn’t have gone any better.

  Red Mullet started to play a new piece. Little Cuttlefish hung her flute on a nail in the wall and quickly stripped off her clothes. The men sat silent, staring raptly. The chiton fell to the floor, and the small lithe body popped out naked, thoroughly shaven all over. The young woman looked around for a moment, gauging the size of her audience; then she kneeled down next to the master of the house and, with a few expert moves, pulled out his péos and began to lick it. The floor was cold, but she was used to it, that too was part of her profession.

  The little boys who’d been expelled from the room hastily got dressed, because the other rooms on the ground floor were unheated. The only room where a brazier had been brought was the one where the guests’ slaves sat awaiting their masters, so they could accompany them home after the banquet. The men sat on the floor yawning; for a while they’d joked around, eating flatbread and olives, but now they were bored. When some of the slave boys came in to warm up, they were greeted by rude quips.

  “Well, have the flute girls arrived?”

  “And how!” replied the young boys, with winks and nods.

  “You would have liked to stay in there to see them do their work, wouldn’t you?”

  The boys burst out laughing.

  “Satyrus stayed behind, one of the guests wouldn’t let him leave!” one of them burst out at last.

  “Ah, well he’ll have some fun!” commented one of the adults. Nearly all of them laughed. Only one of them made a scandalized face, then crossed his fingers to ward off evil. Andromache, who was just coming in to bring drinks, saw him and scowled.

  “There’s no casting of spells here,” she upbraided him.

  “But that wasn’t a spell,” the man protested, shrugging his shoulders. “Here at this house, though, the things you hear!”

  “Why, what is it you don’t like?” the woman retorted wearily.

  “Nothing! It’s just that I’m a Phrygian. Many of the things that you find pleasant are frightful to me, and the other way round.”

  Andromache shrugged her shoulders and went on pouring drinks.

  “What are you, a Phrygian? Just a little girl,” another slave butted in. “Only we Thracians are real men.”

  “That’s enough of that!” snapped Andromache. The Phrygian looked at her.

  “You’re Greek, aren’t you?”

  “From Melos,” the woman replied. Everyone fell silent. They all remembered well what had happened to Melos, only five years had passed since then: the small island inhabited by Spartan settlers had tried to remain neutral in the war between Sparta and Athens, until the Athenian fleet arrived and ordered the inhabitants to take sides. The islanders refused, invoking the protection of the gods and their own good rights. The Athenians had explained that there is only one right, the right of the strongest, but still the people of Melos had refused to take heed. Angered by such stupidity, the Athenians had laid siege to the city and had starved the inhabitants out. And then they’d inflicted their punishment. All the men were taken out and slaughtered, the women raped and sold as slaves to Athens.

  “Is anyone still thirsty?” asked Andromache. No one replied. The woman hoisted the amphora to her shoulder and left the room. The Thracian made an obscene gesture in her direction as she left, and then looked around, but only one or two men laughed.

  3

  Complete mayhem, I tell you! I get back from the countryside last night, and they were still at it. I go straight to my room. I wake up at dawn, and my father still hasn’t gone to bed; I go downstairs, the door is wide open, the braziers have burnt out, and the slaves are all sleeping. In the big room, Kritias was still awake, you know him, right?, and there was Euthydemus, too: they were still drinking, from an enormous goblet, I’ve no idea where they found it. They were taking turns drinking, and then Euthydemus hit the floor, and I had to help Kritias to his feet myself. My father was snoring, I didn’t even try to wake him up. What assholes old men are!”

  “But were the flute girls still there?” asked Argyrus, clucking his tongue.

  “They were fast asleep!” replied Cimon in disgust. “Drunk as lords. They were nude, someone had tossed a cloak over them, but I yanked it off. Nice looking. I’d have known what to do to them. Then that slut Andromache came in and tossed me out.”

  “Oh, no! She tossed you out!” the two other men laughed. Cimon grimaced.

  “Just wait till my father kicks the bucket, then she’ll see, that one.”

  “Until then, you’re not getting any of th
at,” Cratippus mocked him. Cimon’s expression darkened.

  “Just wait till my father kicks the bucket, I tell you! Then you’ll see whether or not I get some of that. And then I’ll sell her to Fox Dog, and you can to go to the brothel and enjoy her yourselves.”

  The three young men were riding through the deserted countryside. During wartime, people were unwilling to venture outside. They rode past a farm that had been reduced to ruins, with the roof falling in and the walls sooty from the flames. It hadn’t been a recent fire, and ivy was already covering up the rubble.

  “Haven’t we gone too far? Let’s go back to your house,” said Argyrus.

  “Look, the little boy’s scared,” Cratippus mocked him. Cimon snickered.

  “Another mile, and from the hilltop you’ll be able to see Decelea. Do you have the nerve to ride to there?”

  There was a Spartan encampment in Decelea. For two years now they hadn’t gone away; in the city, refugees were clogging all the porticoes, sleeping on the streets. They hadn’t come any closer, but the idea of seeing their tents gave them the shivers.

  “No, let’s go back,” Argyrus begged.

  “You can go back on your own, if you’re so scared.”

  Argyrus turned pale. How could he admit that he was frightened in front of everyone? He’d rather let himself be killed.

  In the distance they could glimpse a section of wall that had recently been thrown up, and a guard tower. Once they got closer, they caught sight of the hoplites relaxing, with their backs against the wall. Seeing the three horsemen approach, one of them stood up, grabbed his spear, and came toward them. When he saw that they were little more than boys, he relaxed. He spat out the clove of garlic he’d been chewing.