The Wooden Walls of Thermopylae

by Nick Brown

  Themistocles was able to do this as his position of Strategos gave him the right. Since Marathon the role of the Archons had been circumscribed. They were now appointed each year by lot, so it was not a role from which a man could build a power base. The role of Strategos, the men who led the armies, was too important to be chosen by lot so were elected by tribe and could be re-elected. In this way there had been a subtle shift of power from the Archonate to the generals and many saw the hand of Themistocles behind this.

  We hadn’t long to wait; in fact if my memory serves we’d just brought some honey cakes from a street seller when a tremendous shouting broke out near the dais and rolled backwards through the crowd. Themistocles.

  He climbed up with a pronounced limp and a series of playacting facial grimaces intended to convey his pain clearly enough to those standing right at the back.

  “Forgive me, Athenians, the spear and sword wounds I took fighting for the city of the Goddess make it hard for me to move as quickly as I once did.”

  I knew this for a lie: he’d been moving easily enough the day before. Most of the crowd loved it, however, and cheered. Not everyone though; someone shouted back angrily at him. I couldn’t make out what but Themistocles’s reply was crystal clear.

  “Well, no one could accuse you of that, Kallixenos, the only place a spear would ever pierce you would be up the arse and then only because you asked for it.”

  The roar of laughter at this drowned out anything else for minutes. Themistocles put up his hands for silence and then, exaggerating his limp even further, moved to the speaker’s post and began to explain what we were really here for.

  I was told later by friends who were nearer the dais about something that was different about this assembly. There was a type of organisation to the way the great men arranged themselves, which was new.

  In the past, with all the pushing and jostling, people were all mixed up. The speakers sat with their family and friends who would mainly be members of their tribe. Since Marathon even this had been relaxed as most of them had fought together there. When they’d held the stitched up assembly that decided to arraign Miltiades, the proposers were scattered all across the range of the benches.

  Not now. Those who supported Themistocles and his ideas for the Piraeus and a larger fleet to combat Aegina and the empire sat together. Men from different tribes, many of them new men, interspersed with merchants and some of the city’s best trierarchs. They sat as a block and must have arrived early to manage this. On the other side, not quite as organised but recognisable, were Hipparchus, Megacles, Aristides, and Kallixenos with their supporters. Interestingly Xanthippus was close to them but not quite with them.

  This wasn’t the arrangement for a debate about land, family and status. It was about power but also about something else: about something that Themistocles had begun to call decisions of the city, or policy. So they sat together in ranks the same way they would have lined up in hoplite armour to fight a battle.

  Looking back, reader, you can see a pattern to the way things changed but when it’s all new and you’re in the middle of it there is no pattern: just excitement and confusion.

  Once the crowd finally went silent Themistocles waited a further moment to extenuate the suspense then began.

  “I’m, as you know, a simple man who speaks his mind so I beg my Alkmaionid friends who stood with me at Marathon to forgive me for my simple message and failure to match their fine and elaborate speeches.”

  Everyone knew this was a gibe but no one knew where it was going.

  “The city of the Goddess is in grave danger. Danger made worse by the fact that we can only see the tip of it. But behind that tip, stretching away into the dark is a force far greater than any we have seen. You know the tip is that nest of vipers Aegina. But do you also know that the surface of Aegina is crawling with agents of the Great King? Are you aware that their well-fortified harbour is packed with Persian warships?”

  He was interrupted when someone shouted,

  “Darius is dead.”

  “Perhaps, but it may just be rumour. But what I have just said is fact. Fact that was brought here by the leader of our peaceful mission to Aegina, no less a man than the noble Xanthippus who fought on the wing at Marathon.”

  As with all his speeches Themistocles introduced elements to unsettle his opponents before getting to the real point. This singling out of Xanthippus for praise was particularly effective. Hipparchus rose from his bench, shouting,

  “Make your point, son of Neocles, or give way to someone who will.”

  Themistocles directed his most irritating smile at Hipparchus and playfully wagged his finger before replying.

  “Be patient, son of Charmos. I intend to give way far sooner than you’d imagine. My only purpose in speaking to you today is to put some questions to the heroic citizens of a heroic city. When I have asked these questions I can think of no one more fitted to answer them than you, given your kinship with the late but unlamented tyrant Hippias who so recently visited our city with his Persian friends.”

  This, as Themistocles must have anticipated, provoked violence. Hipparchus attempted to climb onto the dais but had to be restrained by his friends; weapons were drawn and scuffles broke out across the Agora. I was in no position to defend myself so was grateful that we were surrounded by a phalanx of seamen all of them democrats and supporters of Themistocles. Eventually order was restored and he was able to proceed with his questions. Characteristically he threw something else into the mix first.

  “My questions concern the island of Aegina where I must tell you these last days a young hero of Marathon was attacked by a pack of thugs set on him by a traitor. Aegina, the island whose leaders almost soiled their robes in their haste to deliver the earth and water demanded by the servants of the Great King.”

  He paused again, regarding the crowd with the expression of someone wanting to tell a great truth to his friends. This time no one interrupted. What he’d said about Aegina was too near the knuckle and we were at war. So an edgy silence endured until he asked the questions he’d promised.

  “Athenians, ask yourselves, how many seaworthy fighting ships have we?”

  People shuffled about uncomfortably but no one answered.

  “I’m sure I can’t be the only one who knows. Well, I’ll tell you anyway: depending on how quickly we can effect repairs we have between forty three and forty seven. Now ask yourselves, how many have Aegina?”

  Again no answer.

  “Our expedition led by Xanthippus counted seventy nine in the harbour and reckon there are at least ten more. That of course does not include the numerous Persian warships. Do you remember what happened last time their fleet raided us?”

  There was an outbreak of angry shouting: Themistocles waited till it died down before raising his voice to full pitch and bellowing so loud it felt like an earthquake.

  “They burnt Phaleron, the open bay where our defenceless ships were beached. They humiliated us under the angry gaze of our Goddess. And we had more ships back then because we lost good ships fighting besides the Ionian Greeks against the Persians whilst those –”

  He stopped and glared, round eyes bulging.

  “– Those bastards on Aegina were building ships to use against us. So ask yourselves this: what’s going to happen this time round now that the odds are worse?”

  A friend near the front told me that as Themistocles was shouting this out he’d been watching the face of Hipparchus and seen its expression change from anger to an incredulous and dawning horror. But it was already too late: Themistocles had arrived at the climax of his peroration.

  “But ask yourselves these questions first. Who has been trying to push this city into building a fortified harbour like our enemies have? Who has been trying to persuade the men who lead this city to build a new war fleet so that we won’t be at the mercy of those fucking pirates?”

  There was an outbreak of shouting from the massed crowd, starting wi
th the sailors but spreading.

  “Themistocles, Themistocles.”

  It built into a chant and seemed as if it would never stop. But he hadn’t quite finished and lifted his hands into the air, palms facing the crowd, and gradually the chanting died away.

  “So when you watch their fleet descend onto our few triremes lying unprotected on the shore. When you see the smoke rising from burning ships and buildings. When you hear the cries of your wives and daughters being raped and carried off into slavery. When you are burying your sons killed in a desperate but failed defence. Ask yourselves this. Ask why didn’t we build the safe harbour Themistocles wanted? Ask where is the new fleet of triremes he begged our leaders to build, the fleet that would have saved us?”

  He paused, leaving us on the edge. I’d seen him do this before, milk every last drop like a good goatherd will. Only then, in a softer but still audible voice, did he deliver the killer blow.

  “And to respond to those questions I’ll give way to the man most qualified to give you the answers because he more than anyone is responsible for them: Hipparchus, son of Charmos.”

  He turned his back, stepped down from the dais and walked away from the Agora. Behind him there was an outbreak of shouting as the fighting began.

  Chapter Nine

  Three days later, just before dawn, Aeschylus walked into our room waking us. He was travel-stained and weary but something else as well. I tried to work out what it was as he talking to Cimon. I’d avoided his gaze: I still felt too much shame. I think he was embarrassed too; these things can hang between men like an invisible curtain. Didn’t stop him speaking though.

  “If you’re capable of feeling shame, Mandrocles, you should feel it now. That poor girl didn’t deserve your spite. Treat the ones who love you like that and soon you’ll stand alone. Now get out of that bed, I need to sleep.”

  I got up and headed for the stairs where Cimon was waiting. Aeschylus called after me.

  “Wake me in three hours, I’ve information Themistocles needs. You can come with me if you can manage to forget your own problems for a moment.”

  Cimon shouted,

  “And me, do I come?”

  “You make your own decisions, son of Miltiades.”

  He turned his face to the wall and was asleep in seconds. Cimon and I wandered down to the bar; there were already drinkers in there, no one slept well last night, there’d been skirmishes throughout the hours of darkness as the unstable city prepared for another revolution of the wheel. Then Cimon loped off towards where the Athene Nike was beached and I wandered, with a large honey cake warm from the baker’s oven, to a bar near the construction site that Piraeus was turning into. I sat outside with a cup of hot spiced wine letting the rising sun warm my aching bones.

  I couldn’t shift the blackness from my soul, the Gods had buried it too deep; but I felt the first imperceptible flicker of direction. Above me the sun caught some of the gleaming new marble on the Acropolis. I stared at it, looking for some message that maybe I could be forgiven, but instead tears began to trickle down my cheeks. I rubbed at my eyes with honey smeared fingers. The crying made me feel better; I didn’t understand why.

  Now, all these years later, I’ve seen too many brave men break down and weep or sit in silence for years not to understand that it’s just the price of courage. You hang on and hang on and later, when there’s no need to hang on, you break. So I sat and stared out over the waters watching boats dragged off the beach into the sea until it was time to wake Aeschylus.

  Cimon was there before me, they went silent as I entered.

  “You’ve suffered more than I thought, Mandrocles: go to Lyra, talk to her, she will understand.”

  I didn’t answer, however it appeared we’d begun to rebuild our friendship. But we couldn’t get anything out of him concerning his whereabouts over the last few days even though we pestered him all the way to the Ceramicus. Themistocles was in great high spirits when we arrived. His brother was there and a number of hangers on who seemed to have attached their fortune to the rise of the Demos.

  “Welcome, Athena’s greatest poet; tell me, were you successful?”

  Aeschylus smiled and gave a typically elliptical answer.

  “If you chose to hang about the Piraeus, in a couple of days you’d find out.”

  Themistocles laughed and clapped him on the shoulders several times before saying,

  “You missed a great piece of theatre in your absence: you know, I think you could improve your chances of winning the goat at next year’s Dionysia by watching me at work. For instance, no chorus could present surprise and fear better than Hipparchus at my prompting. He’s had to go to ground now. Slow as he is he’s beginning to learn that there’s nothing to be gained by trying violence after defeat in a public meeting. That’s where the Demos reigns supreme.”

  Aeschylus said nothing, just listened wearing a sardonic grin.

  “So much so that the lads of the fleet were disappointed: after they’d cracked a few heads Hipparchus’s faction disappeared off the streets quicker than snow in spring.”

  “That’s a nice image, remind me to write it down.”

  “Before you do, tell me about your visit to our friends in Corinth. Are you still held in such high regard in that great city these days?”

  “Less since they found out that I’d become your Ambassador.”

  They both laughed at this, but I hadn’t understood a word of this exchange; how could I miss so much and understand so little? Aeschylus changed his posture and suddenly he was the chorus leader imparting the will of the Gods. If he didn’t write plays he could have made a decent living as first actor.

  “The city fathers of Corinth of the high citadel send their greetings to Themistocles, the Athenian selfless father of the Demos. Out of friendship and respect for our sacrifice at Marathon they are prepared for twenty of their fighting ships to sail out from beneath the high citadel and serve with the Athenians against the Medisers of Aegina.”

  He dropped the pose and added,

  “At terms that can be confirmed later, providing the fighting is quickly concluded.”

  Themistocles looked relieved; he even let out an exhalation as if he’d been holding his breath while Aeschylus spoke. So his earlier bombast had been an act; well, at least a partial act. With Themistocles it was difficult to know.

  “Thank the Gods. That gives us a chance to put up enough resistance to agree peace terms. The real settlement that we’ll impose on those bastards will have to wait. But the war will have served its purpose.”

  He offered us wine.

  “Take care how fast you drink, son of Miltiades, too much deprives a man of his judgement and sets other men talking.”

  It’s a measure of the extent that Cimon looked to Themistocles for guidance back then and also a measure of the value of his advice that he drank his cup slowly. There’s no acknowledgement of that today: you’ll find nothing of it in the scribbles of young Herodotus, only a shadow of it in Aeschylus’s great conclusion to his trilogy: Prometheus Fire Bringer. The greatest of all his plays, the finest flowering of all our poetry: something that surpasses anything by the trickster Sophocles or the Euripides boy. But understand this, reader: more than Callias and his money, it was Themistocles who set Cimon on his way.

  I never understood why: maybe a promise to Miltiades or guilt over his split with him. Perhaps he saw Cimon as a hedge against the Alkmaionids or had some other use for him. His association with the boy certainly served him well.

  But for all that there was a genuine closeness between them back then. Cimon was a wild elemental in his early teens, strong willed and destructive: the fall of his father left him disturbed. Themistocles kept him between the traces and not through fear. Cimon feared no one. No, it was respect – maybe cut with affection, but above all they were both, in their differing ways, consummate politicians. Themistocles saw the path to the future and Cimon wanted to travel it.

  Themistoc
les had one more surprise for us.

  “Tomorrow we go to a small symposium where certain matters of great importance concerning the principal of Isonomy will be discussed; somewhere you will find familiar, Mandrocles. Please be here one hour before the lamps are lit.”

  As we were leaving Themistocles took my arm and whispered.

  “The symposium will be a major test for Cimon: you make sure he keeps a clear head, remains sober and passes it.”

  Next evening’s walk to the house of Phrasicles was, for me, impregnated with memories: bitter and sweet. It was here that Miltiades and Themistocles had tested whether they could be allies and almost came to blows as a consequence. It was also where I first met Aeschylus and Lyra; it all seems so long ago.

  Cimon, freshly washed with his long hair properly dressed and oiled, wearing one of his father’s robes, bubbled with excitement. This was his first real step along the road his father had trod. We walked with Aeschylus behind Themistocles and his brother Agesilaus. In Aeschylus’s words it was almost the same cast as last time, before Marathon.

  It was dusk when we were admitted into the beautiful courtyard where, years before, the even more beautiful flute girl had cleaned up my tunic after I had disgraced myself in drink. I can still almost taste her sweet breath. Oh, Lyra; if only the Gods would let us back to try again. Forgive me, reader, I ramble.

  But any nostalgia was quickly replaced by surprise. There were but ten of us in the andron that night. The other five were Phrasicles, Ajax, a distant Philiad relation of Cimon’s two men I didn’t know and, on the couch of honour, Xanthippus.