Pelopidas waved down the hissing and batted away some hard dried apricots—the mob was unruly, just as Platôn had warned. He was soon reminding his audience that there were already ten thousand foreigners, a myriad of xenoi, outside their gates. Another seven thousand Boiotians would march if the dêmos so voted. All could be ready in a day, maybe two, to break camp. They’d be back home in twenty-five days—with a good ten or fifteen days to crush the Spartans and break their power in Lakonia. If they quit throwing their food at him, the Boiotians would have enough road rations for five days. Pelopidas reminded them that winter granaries near Megara were already secured for the army. Who knew how many friendly Peloponnesians would join in, once they saw a proud horde of twenty thousand marching across the Isthmos to Sparta?
The Boiotian crowd finally calmed, eager to learn whether there was money or fame to be had in all this. Pelopidas raised his voice and provided newer bits that left most stunned: “Yesterday, ambassadors from Elis arrived from the south. These are the oak men, with roots in stone from the coastal villages around Olympia, and they have an offer. Should we Boiotians muster to help Mantineia, should we lift the Spartan boot off their own necks, then they pledge us ten talents—sixty thousand drachmas—or enough to pay the army of the Boiotians for ten days of campaigning. The sacks of silver are under guard on the Kadmeia as I speak.”
“This coin,” Pelopidas finished, as he pointed to the temples and lowered his arms once again to calm the noise, “is in addition to what our Mantineian and Arkadian friends have promised. Of course it comes on top of our funds that the council last summer had allotted. Who will object when war is right—and profitable? I say nothing about the booty. But no one has plundered Lakonia in twenty generations, and it is ripe for the picking.” The crowd roared its readiness to march. They were drowning out the few gossips and whinings of the knights and rich long-hairs, who were saying that Pelopidas had no intention of marching five days down and five days back and then staying a mere twenty in the Peloponnesos. It sounded instead to these few rich men as if the army of the Boiotians would not be back until threshing time the next year. Still, the general of the Sacred Band strutted off the bêma to wide applause—such an astute diplomat, this Pelopidas, to have managed to grab ten talents from the wily Eleans for the farmers of Boiotia.
As Alkidamas had warned, the Athenian visitors were present in force. Perhaps twenty or so in their delegation had come over Kithairon two days earlier, in their long cloaks and costly leather boots, even if their Platôn in disgust had gone home to Athens. Mêlon noticed that the allies were all sitting by a stone column of the arch that led into the theater. Now and then they hid or came out in full view, depending on how they judged the pulse of the mob. The Athenians had already spent a day working the symposia and gymnasia among the Theban rich soft-hands, lobbying for neutrality.
A few of the older ones were murmuring now, following the words of Pelopidas and perhaps worried that the crowd was beginning to eye them and mutter its threats. No wonder Platôn had left before all this started—just as he had once conveniently said he was sick during Sokrates’s trial, and then disappeared after his teacher’s death. The smiling Athenian general Iphikrates, no friend to the Thebans, came out from behind the column wearing his breastplate. He paraded in with his guard of light-armed skirmishers and peltast, javelin men. Iphikrates was clean-shaven and was as bald on top as his face was hairless. A wrinkled vulture with his long chin and beak nose, he began squawking as if he’d found his dinner in some half-eaten rotting carcass on the byway. Iphikrates yelled out to the crowd, “Siga. Sigate. Let our Kallistratos speak; it is his right as a guest. He’ll set right the lies of your Pelopidas. Listen to your friends from Athens. Give us our due as guest-friends. We are envoys—protected by the nomima of the Hellenes.”
Alkidamas was sitting behind Mêlon. He leaned forward to whisper in his ear as he identified the Athenian strangers. “There is Kallias. With the bun of hair tied on top, the money chest next to Iphikrates. He has more coins in his mouth than even you do in your strongbox.” Alkidamas went on. “Kallistratos is a follower of Isokrates. He loves the Spartans dearly. His name may imply “a fine army,” but he is a weaver of intrigue, not a fighter. Even at Athens these two know more about us and our Epaminondas than we do ourselves—thanks to the nighttime visits north and south by Phrynê and her agents, that spy whom you dub Sphêx. Even I have not fleshed out all her plots, both with Lichas and with the Korinthians who so often bar the Isthmos.”
It was just this Kallistratos who finally mounted the bêma. He began the Athenian attack. “Men of Boiotia and friends of Athens. What is all this fiery air that this lackey of Pythagoras has breathed into this hallowed assembly of yours?” With that start, he bore down on the friends of Epaminondas in the front row in their broad-rimmed leather hats. “Do you have the noble dragons of old on your Kadmeia? If so, who let in this serpent Pelopidas who for no reason would scorch Hellas with his sparks and embers of hate, trading in peace for hateful war?” Kallistratos was pointing back at Pelopidas and Epaminondas. “Bloody Ares has left us. Peace with all her gifts is at hand. Yes, beautiful Eirênê has flown in; peace sits atop us all. Yet these men alone spurn her soft, feathered wings and downy breast, and instead yearn for the black-taloned Kêres, whose beaks drip with the meat of corpses rotting in our fields. By the gods, man, at least give this peace a moment. You Boiotians, the summer before last, won a great victory. All Hellas acknowledges the achievement of Leuktra. This turnabout was not unwelcome in my own city of Athens. But do not spoil the triumph with greed. Why would you drop the firm shiny apple in your hand by now grasping for the rotting one on the limb so far above your reach?”
Jeers followed from the crowd with a hail of flying nuts and raisins. Nonetheless, the Athenian pressed on, still striving to undo the work of Pelopidas. “We men of Athens have no love for the Spartan. Indeed, for thirty years we fought him.” Kallistratos spoke carefully now. “Then your own grandfathers were not so friendly and indeed as enemies were heartened by our grief. Thebans, not Spartans, stripped our houses on the border. Thebans sent men to Sikily to spear our Athenian sons. Thebans clamored to tear down Athena’s city when Lysander sailed into the Piraeus in his pride. All this we paid you back not with invasion. No, we gave safe haven for your radical exiles—when the Spartan occupiers then turned their attention to you and sat atop the Kadmeia right over there.”
Kallistratos once again lowered his voice, and he extended his arms with his palms open to the audience, now and then grabbing the folds of his outer cloak. It was easy for the crowd to say they hated Athenians, but more difficult to jeer at such mellifluous Attic speakers who sounded far better than their own, and were offering peace rather than war. A few Thebans now rose and cheered him on. “He makes more sense than our own warmongers. Give him more time, tell us more.”
In response, Kallistratos now threw out his enormous belly. He cared little that he was already bathed in sweat in midwinter. He wanted these enraptured Boiotian pigs to see just how rich was his table, and how much high-priced food from Attika went into his gut that alone could fuel such deep cadences. “There are many faces in this crowd—not the least this tame Pelopidas himself—that I recognize from their sanctuary in Athens. We the men of Athens once took them in, all so hungry and all on the run. Then no one else would—we did so at great danger to ourselves from our newfound Spartan friends. But these renegades would turn their flames on their benefactors by scorching friend and enemy alike. Gratitude and—magnanimity—xenia, I would have thought, are attributes not lightly thrown away by the Hellenes.”
To scattered applause, Kallistratos now frowned and took on a melancholy tone. “We Athenians are magnanimous folk. From the time of Theseus the men of Athens have come to the aid of you Thebans. Learn from us. War, after all, has proven a great leveler. We have had our fall. So has Sparta its own ptôsis. Beware that you of Boiotia do not trip up as well.” Slowly the sadness beg
an to leave Kallistratos, and then with an increasingly contorted look, as if he had a bone in his throat, or had a stinky tooth, he began to raise his voice a notch. “We should patch our tears, and pull up over our heads our shared stitched Hellenic cloak to fend off the harsh wind from Persia. A new order has emerged after the war: No one city of Hellas, in this balanced world, dictates to another. My Theban friends, stay within your borders. Do not put the democracy at Athens in the unenviable position of having to censure its cousins across the mountain.” Kallistratos felt the crowd hush. Only one Theban, no more, yelled out, “When did Athens ever stay within its borders—or is our Delion in your Attika now?”
Kallistratos ignored him, but began to worry that the fickle farmers five rows back were tiring of his Athenian oration, as they groaned, then clapped, then hissed, then laughed, depending on the skill of his performance. “Now I address men of substance and prudence and dispense with you of the mob. My dear Boiotarchs, men of moderation and sobriety, ponder this wise counsel and put off action until after the new year. Then once more when the weather warms and the buds break can we bring matters to the council of all the Hellenes in peace, without the disruption of firebrands who as infants soil their diapers and crawl out of councils when they do not get their way.” At the end, Kallistratos’s voice had once again turned soft, as soft as Pelopidas’s, but by far the more polished. Had he not been an Athenian, the Boiotians would have perhaps preferred his mellifluous speech to that of any of their own. As Kallistratos began to slowly walk away, he stopped in the aisle amid the shouting. “A final warning. You are not talking of war thrust on you, as happened on that dark day of Leuktra when a red-caped king crossed your borders.” He pointed his finger at the front row where sat the long-haired estate owners who owned the horses of Boiotia. “No, lordly men of Boiotia, you are pondering a war of choice. This is a preemptive act. Why an optional war? Why lose the goodwill of the victim to earn the antipathy of the aggressor?”
Kallistratos went on even louder, eager to win back the crowd. “Epaminondas will just say he wants to go to Arkadia. When he gets there, he will just say he wishes to go on to Sparta. Then once there, that he wishes yet again just to cross Taygetos into Messenia—and there he gets killed any still alive. We supported your first good war at Leuktra. But not this second, unprovoked, bad war against the Spartans, this we cannot stomach. Preemption and unilateral aggression—these provocations are not in our Athenian natures.”
The assembly grew silent at that, after having laughed at his girth and been entranced by his oratory. Now they were simply confused by his warning that they might die in an unnecessary war that would have no end. Mêlon, however, saw that the real message, the only constant, from this rogue was whatever the men of Thebes did, the Athenians were against. The former was a young, a fresh democracy of farmers, the latter an old democracy of the jobless and those who looked to the dole. The one was as confident as the other was fearful. Perhaps what wily Kallistratos really had meant to say—or so Mêlon barked to Alkidamas above the shouting—was that Sparta once in the great war had beaten Athens badly. Now Athens feared that Thebes might do the same to Sparta. After all, it would be a bitter blow indeed to Athens, the self-proclaimed school of Hellas, if Epaminondas could do to Sparta in a single season what Athens had not been able to in twenty-seven.
CHAPTER 19
No Man a Slave
Suddenly there was a commotion as a Boiotian loudmouth stood up in the crowd and demanded his say. It was Menekleidas of Aulis again, old Backwash, who had tried to stop the fight the night before Leuktra. After the battle he had appeared on the battlefield, amid the wreckage and corpses, covered with his rubbed-on blood and screaming in pain, he said, from a blow by Lichas himself. How he had been nicked in the fiftieth row from the front, no one quite knew. But that had been more than a year ago, and in the interim Backwash had repeated so often the lie that Leuktra had been his plan all along that the wearied listeners came to half-believe it—and his false wound as well.
He did not believe that Epaminondas could take an army into the vale of Lakonia in midwinter—and moreover the Athenians had given him five pouches of silver to say so. He was as firmly set against fighting now as he had been in the tents of the generals on the eve of Leuktra. Quickly Backwash brawled his way through the crowd in the assembly, turning his head from Mêlon when he got to the front, already chanting “Eirênê, eirênê—peace” before he had even reached the dais. Backwash announced that it was past time for a real Boiotian to speak. Yes—a real Boiotian like himself, one born in the black cow-soil nearby, a man of the people to address his own people. Mêlon remembered why a year and more ago he had kicked the scoundrel into the trash heap outside the tent of the generals. But now there was no Chiôn to be seen, nor a man quick to temper like Philliadas of Tanagra. So Backwash felt safe amid the mob with Athenian mercenaries on his flanks. He ran back and forth at the bêma like a wobbly, webfooted drake who has just lost his head to the butcher.
Despite his smell and his pear-shaped bald head and jowls, Menekleidas was well liked by the Theban town-dwellers to whom he helped spread the obol dole. Now he sought to take up the hammer of his Athenian paymaster Kallistratos and pound down Pelopidas’s peg a bit farther. After Leuktra, the farmers of Aulis had driven Backwash out to Thebes, for they knew his lies and had tired of his tongue. He left his toll taking and took up his kiln work full time. His clothes were usually stained with clay, for this Backwash spun pots in the agora, when the law courts were slow and few paid for his arguments. But he had turned his cloak inside out and felt he was as lordly looking as any horse-owner.
“As a spear-wounded veteran of Holy Leuktra, let me speak not of what is right—for who knows what’s right in a difficult matter such as this? Is not ‘right’ anyway a relative thing, and always dressed up as the ‘good’ by the man with the heaviest fist? So instead, let us of the poorer kind ponder what is expedient for all of Boiotia.” He pointed over to Pelopidas, and he began to shake his body and twist his head in agitation. “Did you listen, men of Boiotia, fellow veterans of the hard fight at Leuktra, to your own Pelopidas—to his appalling madness that will engulf us all and take our sons from the vineyards so that they can rot in the mud of Sparta? For that is where this Arkadian gambit will end up.” None challenged him, so Backwash went on. “Look—men are in armor outside our walls, before our vote. They put a dagger to our throat and then ask if we dare sheath it. Consider the logic of it all. Does this Pelopidas or Epaminondas, does either have a son in the front ranks among the prostatai? Or do they instead talk of war but send your kin to the sound of Spartan pipes, like they did to us at Leuktra? Is not this childless drone, like his master Epaminondas, always buzzing about wars for the children of others to fight in?” He hurried now, just as if he were spinning out a smooth calyx or hydra for his clay kiln.
“What business do our folk have in Arkadia, in Sparta, and in Messenia on the slopes of Mt. Ithômê, in shadowy cold Messenia, far after the Pleiades have set? That’s just where such an expedition of these mad Pythagoreans will all too soon end up, mark my words—with our red blood on their white snow.” He paused again, and was ready to duck. But when no fruit was thrown, he continued. “I have heard that the Peloponnesians wish to have walls; fine, let them build walls. So the Messenians wish for their freedom; fine, let them earn it as we did at Leuktra. I have heard hoplites are needed to surround the Spartan acropolis; fine. But let Pelopidas and his Sacred Band—not us hoplites of Boiotia—leave tonight.” Then his face twitched more and he became louder: “Let us spend money on Boiotians, not helots. We could have a new drain to the agora, some plaster for the columns of the Herakleion, or an extra obol for the dole, for the price of a day fighting down there.”
A few shouted in unison, “No, to war! No to money for the helots! Yes, yes, yes to peace. Stay home. Spend our coins on ourselves. Keep spinning, pothead.” The argument that neither a free Messenia nor a defeated Sparta was worth
one more dead Boiotian was good Nemean red wine for many in the crowd, who had already had enough of someone else’s glorious war. That there was a free council of the Boiotians without a Spartan guard on the acropolis—and thanks only to Epaminondas—was forgotten by all.
“The truth,” Backwash said, finally slowing down and walking in tighter circles, “is that Messenians, our so-called allies, are by nature servile folk—every one of those helots fitted for their proper task as serfs to their betters.” He was pointing to the Boiotians in the first row and speaking in the drawl of the Euripos, accented with lisps and nasal drones. “By the gods, the helots are a rural and backward race of tribes and sects who quarrel and kill like savages. They are no better than Homer’s wild Cyclopes.”
“Few of them can read letters. Fewer still know anything of mastery of the sea or the polis. Do they know of anything other than tilling for Sparta in their black soil of the Peloponnesians? They don’t even have their own language or race. Any other people would long ago have built cities and harbors and at least a trireme or two. So let us stay put and far away from such folk. Let us, the heroes of Leuktra, start finishing our own walls in our own cities, and rebuilding our ties with Athens whose friendship Kallistratos here has so ably outlined.” Kallistratos stood up and waved to the crowd. But Menekleidas ignored him and went on, not about to let even his benefactor cloud his moment. He was laughing, and chuckling at his own jest. “As I warned all of us on the night before Leuktra, is Ainias the killer not that fair-weather crane from the shoreline of Stymphalos? Has he not flown back home, cawing and cackling, when his feathers were ruffled that he could not muster our folk to do his own dirty business down south? No, men of Boiotia, let us accept the world as it is—not as we dream it might be. Enough of this mad democracy-spreading.”
The End of Sparta Page 24
