The Athenian Women

by Alessandro Barbero

  What are you talking about, of course we can! Kritias was about to retort, impatiently; but then he restrained himself, he forced himself to think. We shouldn’t act too hastily, that’s always a mistake. But Eubulus is going to have his slaves tortured, who knows what’ll emerge from that? There’s also that other misfortune involved, the killing of Atheas. Of all places, why would he go get himself killed there! What if he had accomplices? That idiot Eubulus might be capable of anything. No, they needed to take advantage of the opportunity, immediately, just like in war, when the gods dangle a chance before your eyes, and mock you if you fail to grab it instantly: this too is a war.

  “A special session,” said Kritias. “The magistrates can do it. All we need to do is find a magistrate who’s on our side, and send out the herald and the policemen with their ropes. But we need to move fast!”

  In the group that had gathered around Euthydemus, a few heads nodded. Kritias’s eyes were glittering; it was clear that he had an idea, and everyone in the party was accustomed to listening to him with respect—he thought faster than did the others, this much had been clear for some time.

  “Let’s do it,” one of them said.

  It wasn’t yet noon when the herald walked out onto the square shouting at the top of his lungs, and the Scythians began to herd the crowd toward the hill of the assembly. As was customary in matters of some urgency, the policemen were armed with ropes dipped in red ocher: in a group, they urged the stragglers along, and later anyone found wearing a stained tunic would be fined. It was a brutal system, but it worked: most of the citizenry, it’s well known, are poor and own only one tunic. A confused clamor rose from the crowd as it climbed the hill; some cursed the unexpected waste of valuable time, others joked about the unexpected gain of a stipend. Most, however, went on talking about the murders discovered that morning. We’re no longer safe even in our own homes! What are we waiting for, why don’t we do something? A few, and not only those paid to say so, started muttering under their breath what so many still didn’t dare to think: this democracy is weak, it can’t keep us safe . . .

  When the crowd on the Pnyx was sufficiently dense, packed shoulder-to-shoulder so tightly that newcomers couldn’t get any closer, the magistrates climbed the steps of the platform and declared the assembly in session. The herald pushed his way through, raising his voice in the general hubbub.

  “Who wishes to speak?”

  Kritias stepped forward.

  “I wish to speak!”

  He climbed the steps with a heavy tread, making the slap of his sandals echo. When he reached the top, he looked around deliberately, staring into the eyes of those who were in the front rows, now this one, now that. The crowd is a single body, only a fool will tell you that looking into the eyes of those closest to you has no effect on the others massed farther back: they would be wrong, the effect spreads all the way to the back, though no one knows why . . .

  “Men of Athens!”

  Everyone looked at him, in silence. This will go well, Kritias told himself. There are things you can sense from the very first moment.

  “Last night a citizen’s home was laid waste, his hearth profaned, his slave girl kidnapped, his son murdered. But why do I say murdered? He was butchered, along with his friends. You all know his father, Eubulus, the son of Phormio. Eubulus is a friend of mine, but that’s not what matters: he’s also a friend of yours, a friend to your city. All of you know how lavishly he’s spent for theatrical productions, how many triremes he’s paid to launch and arm, how often he’s fought at your side. Today Eubulus mourns a son, murdered in his own home, and the others, you know them all, too: Cleonymus, son of Astacus; Niketas, son of Demarcus: their sons were about to come of age, in just a year. They were the city’s best and brightest, and now they’re dead.”

  A voice came out of the crowd.

  “Who do you accuse, Kritias?”

  Kritias was about to answer rudely, but once again he restrained himself. Control yourself! Still, what enormous patience that requires: so these are the so-called sovereign people, and they don’t even understand the workings of the institutions they themselves established. Charges of murder aren’t debated before the assembly, they’re discussed before the Areopagus, aren’t they? Just think, people who don’t know even that are still allowed to come before the assembly and cast their votes!

  “I’m not here to level accusations, men. Eubulus, and the others, will take care of that. I’m not here to ensure that justice is done on their behalf. I’m here to defend the security and safety of us all.”

  As he spoke, he grew more heated: he could feel that he was sweating, he thought of removing his cloak. And yet it was cold out: he could see it in the faces of the crowd. Speaking before a crowd is like being with a young man or a woman, life surges through your body down to your fingertips, you no longer notice anything else.

  “We aren’t safe in our homes! Our children aren’t safe, and neither are our women! Our hearths aren’t safe! We don’t know who did this yet, but we know that today we don’t have the means to defend ourselves from them, whoever they were!”

  The crowd was rumbling. What does he mean, we don’t have the means? Then what are we doing here?

  “That’s right, we lack the means! You ask me . . . ” he went on, turning in the direction from which that interruption had come; he hadn’t the slightest idea of who it was that had spoken, but it is always wise to convey the impression that you know everyone. “. . . you ask me who I accuse! Well now, let’s just imagine that I knew exactly who to accuse, and that I were to go to the Areopagus to level my charges; in the meantime the killers would be free to take to their heels! Certainly, I can take it upon myself to have them arrested, ask that the Scythians be put at my service: but then I’d have to hasten to the homes of the magistrates, until I find one in, and then on top of that I have to talk him into it! We can’t go on like this!”

  “What are you suggesting, Kritias?” a man shouted. Kritias turned in his direction: this time he recognized him, and he called him by name.

  “Here’s what I’m suggesting, Strato! Let us appoint a commission, ten delegates, with full powers, and the task of guaranteeing the safety of the citizens.”

  “Why ten?” Strato insisted. He was happy he’d been recognized, he was relishing his popularity. But Kritias wasn’t going to let Strato put him in an awkward situation.

  “Ten, like the generals! This is a war we’re fighting, too, and it’s even more important than the war against the Spartans, because here they’re killing us in our own homes! I propose we name ten delegates, and they won’t be drawn by lots, men, they will be elected! Precisely because this too is a war!”

  The people began to mutter. That’s a tough one to swallow, the idea of issuing new powers, and what’s more, electing delegates rather than choosing them by lot. When elections are held, everyone knows how it will turn out: the wealthy are always chosen, those who spend freely and have a clientele. So much better to choose by lot, now that’s a democratic system! Still, it’s true that the generals who are chosen to lead in wartime are elected, no one wants to run the risk of choosing generals by drawing lots. And yet, there’s something not quite right about this; obviously, it’s a flaw in the system. Perhaps, then, we’re not all equal after all? It was troubling, and for that very reason people didn’t want to think about it, but the fact remained, like a bite of food that wouldn’t go down, until sooner or later you choke on it.

  “This is a war!” Kritias was shouting from high atop the platform. That concept had won the crowd over, he’d noticed it immediately. “And I move that we vote on the nomination of ten plenipotentiary delegates, with unbridled powers to send out the Scythians to arrest criminals without any need for prior authorization, and out of those ten—listen carefully, men!—I move that we appoint Eubulus, I move that we appoint Cleonymus, I move that we appoint Niketas, I move
that we appoint illustrious citizens who are here today mourning their sons. Who better than them to ensure our safety?”

  The people, perplexed, wavered and swayed. Certainly, this is a stiff edict, but it’s also true that tough times demand extreme measures.

  “I ask that a vote be taken on my proposal!” Kritias said again. The herald looked around uncertainly.

  “Who wishes to speak?” he asked, at last. For a moment no one spoke. Kritias held his breath. No one. It’s done: they’re going to vote.

  “I ask to speak!”

  An old man had come hobbling forward, pale as a corpse. Those who knew him had a hard time recognizing him: Polemon was a wreck, he hadn’t slept a wink.

  “I am Polemon, son of Kallias!” he declared, as he climbed the steps. Kritias stared at him, but he had to step aside and give him his place: that’s how democracy worked.

  Polemon looked around. Thousands of men, young and old—and to tell the truth, more old men than young ones!—were staring up at him. He didn’t know how to begin, his lips were trembling. He remembered what he had told Thrasyllus: the next time I make up my mind to address the assembly, remember to stop me. That was only yesterday. We knew nothing about what was happening to our daughters.

  “Kritias, here,” he began, gesturing toward the tall man, who was eyeing him mistrustfully, “has just proposed a new measure that goes against your laws. And he’s nominated three men that according to him would be the best suited to be invested with this new power.”

  The people fell silent, waiting.

  “Now I’ve come here, no, I’ve run here, and I came the minute I learned that you’d gathered—I live outside of the city, in the demos of Boutadai—to tell you who these people really are.”

  And Polemon began to tell the story. He told how the night before, when he got home, he and his neighbor had found their daughters in bed, feverish, unrecognizable. How as they held the lamp up, they had realized the girls had been beaten almost to death. He said nothing about the fact that the young women, when questioned, had invented a far-fetched story of brigands, and instead told them how his daughter Charis, in the end, had wept desperately as she confessed the truth. That they had been at Cimon’s house, and everything that Cimon and his friends had done to her, to her and to Glycera, and then how a man had arrived at the house, and then a woman, and how there had been blood everywhere, and darkness, and the two of them had fled home, carrying on their bodies the marks of what they had suffered.

  “I’m going to report them to the assembly!” Polemon concluded, out of breath; then his voice broke and he stopped talking, for fear he’d burst into tears.

  The crowd was buzzing. Kritias, after stepping down from the platform, was speaking in a low voice to Euthydemus, who had listened, pale as a sheet. He was trying to convince him; but Euthydemus refused. Exasperated, Kritias raised his hand, and even though the herald hadn’t recognized him, he spoke all the same.

  “You’re accusing dead men! It’s an impiety!”

  Polemon spat.

  “I’m not accusing the dead, I’m accusing their fathers, to whom you wish to entrust our city! I accuse, and my daughter accuses, and I’m here as her representative, my testimony is her testimony! I accuse those who taught those three that two free virgins, the daughters of free men, can be treated like slaves, because their fathers are poor!”

  The buzz of the crowd grew more intense. Kritias sensed the danger, and broke in again.

  “You can’t make accusations here! The assembly isn’t responsible for judging cases of murder!”

  Polemon looked at him.

  “O Kritias, my daughter is still alive. I’m accusing no one of murder. I’m accusing them of kidnapping, rape, violation of the rules of hospitality, and impiety, and because those who committed these crimes are now dead, I’m accusing those who brought them up, and if these aren’t charges to be brought before you, men, I don’t know what else you’d ever be able to judge!”

  A sudden change had come over the crowd. The same men who were about to vote in favor of Kritias’s proposal, for no reason other than that no one had opposed it and they didn’t know what else to do, now realized that Polemon was talking about something they understood much more clearly. The arrogance of the rich was something they experienced every day, and ever since democracy had been established, that arrogance hadn’t changed for the better, if anything it might even have become worse: the things that the rich could no longer say aloud, they were saying at home much more viciously than ever before—everyone knew that. Kritias looked around and saw that the crowd, which before had been hanging from his lips, was now glaring at him with suspicion.

  Euthydemus, too, was looking at him, awaiting instructions. Kritias was thinking rapidly. Try to counterattack? But the old man had planted himself firmly on the platform, he wasn’t about to budge.

  “They’ve asked you to approve I don’t know which new law, to confer exceptional powers, and to these men of all people! But what I ask is that they be banished from the city, these men who taught their sons to pine for tyranny and rape our daughters!”

  Now the crowd was rumbling menacingly, and fists were already being waved in Kritias’s and Euthydemus’s direction.

  “What should we do?” asked Euthydemus, terrified.

  No, Kritias decided, we’ve lost this round, there’s no point in pushing our luck any further. They want to banish them? What do I have to do with it, after all? It’s none of my business.

  “See it through yourself, if you feel up to it; but I personally would advise you to just disappear,” he hissed; and he rapidly slipped away into the midst of the hostile crowd. And in the meantime he thought about Eubulus, and Eubulus’s son, who had been murdered, and how maybe it would be better just to leave things as they were, because otherwise who could say what else might emerge. And what about Eubulus? If they really do put him on trial, then what happened with Atheas might come out, he won’t be able to keep his mouth shut. I’ll be forced to mount a defense, swear that I knew nothing about it, and even then, anything could happen. It’s pointless, he thought, and not for the first time: you can’t conspire with a band of idiots like these. And the day we finally do take power, we won’t be working with people like this, we’re going to have to find a completely different caliber of individual . . .

  The hawk cautiously stuck his head out of the hole between the metopes of the Parthenon, and scanned the surrounding area. There were no humans here; there were, however, many men gathered on a nearby hill, though too far away to bother him. He studied them for a moment with his keen eye, then forgot about them. A cold wind was gusting, but it wasn’t raining. The hawk distracted himself, plunged his beak into his feathers, then remembered why he was there and emerged into the open, perched precariously on the cornice between the garish hues of the sculptures, dense with red and blue. He took two or three steps, awkwardly, then decided he might as well take to the air, so he spread his wings and leapt. He flapped his wings two or three times until he found the updraft that would lift him high into the air; then he relaxed and began to turn in ever-widening circles, climbing a little higher with each gyre. He turned his head left and right, looking beneath him. Once again he saw the men massed on the assembly hill, though now he paid them no mind, he saw the muddy streets, the courtyards, the city’s roofs covered with tiles, without being aware of it he saw Kritias entering his home and locking the door behind him, he saw the deserted tiers of the theater, saw the multicolored temples rising from the expanse of cottages like islands from the sea, saw the walls surrounding Athens with their fortified gates, and vaguely remembered that he had once built a nest on one of those towers. Rising still higher, he saw in the distance Piraeus teeming with ships, and the lead-gray sea, laced with dirty foam; he saw the olive groves and vineyards around the city, he saw the houses of Polemon and Thrasyllus with their smoking chimneys, he saw
Eubulus’s empty house, where the unwatched hearth had gone out, and farther off the deserted countryside, devastated by the Spartans, charred farms, dead olive groves, and still farther off, Decelea, the Spartan encampment. He saw the house where Aglaïa, too tired to sleep, tried to imagine her future. Now he was so high he could see over the mountains, to other countries and other seas, and yet as he turned his eyes earthward he could still spot a field mouse sticking its whiskers out of its nest and then scampering quickly across a plowed field. Soon he would spot an easy prey and swoop down to capture it, and then return to the safety of his hole to eat it; but just for the moment the sense of his own power and mastery distracted him. He looked around him, saw the world of which he was sole master, opened his beak, and screamed. Just like that, for no particular reason, just to let one and all know—rivals, females, prey—that he was there, that he was alive, that he was.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Alessandro Barbero is the author of The Eyes of Venice (Europa Editions, 2012), in addition to numerous other works of historical fiction. He is a renowned historian whose two-volume hist­­ory of the Battle of Lepanto is considered to be the definitive text on the subject. He teaches Medieval History at the University of Eastern Piedmont in Vercelli, Italy.