“I see it,” said the other, pointing with his chin at two small signal-fires north of the sailors’ camp. This was the spot where, after generations of experience, the Athenians had learned that the beach shelved most gently to shore. Between the markers, another ship was being pushed by her crew, their efforts supplemented by a large windlass mounted far up the beach — perhaps the very same windlass he had seen when, as a young man, he had sailed to Delos to dance the geranos in honor of Aphrodite.
The helmsman leaned against his steering oar, making a kind of clicking sound with his lips that had annoyed Sophocles ever since they rounded Sounion.
“With this breeze, we still have a long wait,” the man said, and resumed his constant, infernal shucking.
“Great Hera’s tits, stop making that sound!” Sophocles finally shouted in exasperation.
The sound of his voice above the wind and wash of the sea drew curious glances from the archers at the ship’s bow. The old bosun, who had spent the entire journey on the catwalk between the ranks of oarsmen, stuck out his head just above the level of the topdeck.
“Everything alright, sir?” he asked.
“It is now,” the poet replied. At long last, after his outburst, the helmsman’s lips went silent. It was the first order Dexion had made as a field general.
After they landed he lurched and weaved around the beach as if he was still afloat. He was acutely conscious of his own helplessness as he leaned ankle-deep in the surf, waiting for the oarsmen to file off and Bulos to debark with his personal baggage. When the slave appeared they shared not a word — only a single glance, through eyes rimmed with puke-green, that betokened their mutual misery. With no apologies, Sophocles added his shield and day-pack to the burdens on Bulos’ back. He was in no condition to take pity on slaves.
There were sixty triremes on the beach but only a handful of figures to tend them. Once free of the confines of their benches, Athenian oarsmen liked to retire well out of sight of water — in this case, on the plain over a little rise of scrub and jumbled rocks.
Mounting the hill, Sophocles beheld an enormous camp with hundreds of fires and some twelve thousand Athenians gathered around them. Since they were camped on a friendly shore, their mood was relaxed; there were oarsmen dancing to the flutes, feasting, or drinking wine from their canteens, and some trying to do all three at once. Walking on, he saw archers bent over their dice games, and still others lounging halfcovered with blankets, bobbing female heads concealed at their laps. All of these needs were cheerfully fulfilled by enterprising Keotes, who had long appreciated the commercial possibilities of Athenian naval operations. A small flotilla could easily deliver as many customers to their doorstep as lived on the entire island; Pericles’ huge war-fleet more than quadrupled the island’s population. To supply them, the natives had erected a permanent market — a wooden arcade with a well and space for stores, and an adjoining tower from which to keep eager watch for the arrival of their customers.
Dorus, Menippus’ aide-de-camp, found Dexion’s party as they scouted a place to collapse for the night.
“You can’t camp here,” he whistled through a set of gappy teeth. “You’re a general!”
“As a general, I claim the authority to sleep where I please.” Dorus glowered, eyebrows kinked. “You must come with me anyway … you are late, and the Supreme Commander has called for a council.”
“Would the Supreme Commander object if I piss first?”
“Hmm — perhaps the general would not mind walking backwards, and pissing as he goes — ?”
As Dorus led them on a circuitous path through the camp and toward Pericles’ tent, Sophocles’ other priority — aside from the condition of his bladder — asserted itself.
“Can you tell me where I might find my son?”
“Didn’t he arrive with you?” Dorus asked over his shoulder.
“If he had, would I have asked?”
The slave paused, reached into his cloak for his tablet.
“What ship did your son sail on?”
“The Rhamnous.”
Dorus slid his index finger over the leaded surface, moving his lips slightly as he scanned the list of ships.
“The Rhamnous came in some time before you did. The crew has debarked.”
“Can you tell me where?”
Turning up his hands in a hopeless gesture, the slave indicated the city-sized encampment around them.
The rest of the generals were gathered in a semi-circle on the far side of Pericles’ tent, away from the eyes and ears of the hoi polloi. When Sophocles arrived he was greeted with a diffident silence. This was rare for him, and hurtful, yet hardly unexpected. The assembled brass was a far more select group than the mob in the Assembly that had confirmed him, filled with ambitious men who thought of Sophocles not as a national treasure, but a dangerous competitor. He could see it in the eyes of Xenophon of Melittos, the petty resentment; the glance of Cleistophon of Thoraeus actually chilled him.
His colleagues were seated on a rude bench made from the blackened keel of an old wreck. As their wide bottoms had taken up all the available space, and no one moved aside for him, Dexion was forced to squat with Bulos on the ground.
“Now that we’re all here,” said Menippus, with a faintly reproving look toward the latecomers, “we will proceed with our business this evening.”
He was standing before them all with Pericles looking over his shoulder. It was typical of the Olympian to leave the speaking to Menippus, supplanting his mouthpiece only when the occasion demanded. In this instance, with no audience to impress with his finery, the Supreme Commander appeared in a plain cloak. Around him were arrayed his usual satellites: Lysicles the ex-sheepdealer, Evangelus his bookkeeper, Lampon his tame soothsayer. The latter had been reassigned from Italy, from the colony at Thurii, to accompany his master — evidence, if any more was needed, of how seriously the Olympian took the Samian campaign.
It was the first time Sophocles had seen Pericles since his afternoon with Aspasia. The moment presented him with typical ambivalence: guilt for the sake of the man he had cuckolded, yet with a hint of cheap superiority. Neither, he knew, were justified; Pericles had not married Aspasia, and in all likelihood had acceded to — even conceived — her infidelity. He pondered the question as he stared at Pericles, for all the understanding he had gained of his fellow men in all his years, he could see nothing beyond the crust of bland nobility on that face.
“Regarding the task ahead of us, gentlemen, we should neither ignore the dangers, nor exaggerate them,” Menippus declared. “In these matters we believe there is no substitute for the kind of plain-speaking that is hardly heard in the Assembly anymore, but can only be welcomed by mature ears. As all of us here are men of experience, we therefore offer you everything we know, so that you may approach your duties with no illusions. We believe the truth will give you enough to think about.
“First, the difficulties. As you all know, we intervened last year in the war between Samos and Miletus to put an end to a situation that might encourage Persian meddling in Ionia. Our arrival came as a complete surprise to the enemy. Our forces were able to sail to the island unopposed, virtually into the harbor at Samos Town. With the help of the gods, we routed the oligarchs, and freed the Samian people to rule themselves. As a guarantee on the good behavior of those who remained, we liberated one hundred members of the local aristocracy, and removed them to Lemnos, where we believed they would remain in our power.
“The current situation is not as we left it. It appears that certain exiles found support for their schemes in Asia. The satrap of Sardis, a pantlegged gelding named Pissuthnes, had a hand in slipping the counter-revolutionaries back into Samos. He lent ships for them to retrieve the hostages from Lemnos, and also took custody of the garrison we left in the city. We must presume that those brave Athenians are even now suffering all manner of torments at the barbarian’s hand.
“Every hour brings us closer to a reckoning wit
h Pissuthnes — that is a certainty. But for the moment we must accept that the Samian tyrants are back in power, and that they are aware that we Athenians keep our oaths. They know we are coming. They will try to stop us. It is also a certainty.
“The enemy’s ships, their samaenas, are easy to spot. You can recognize them when they approach by their wide beam — half again as wide as ours. Also, from the side, you’ll see that their rams project somewhat above the water, like this.” Menippus presented a hand edge-on, palm down, with his fingers flexed slightly upward. “We think they find some advantage to this — we don’t know what that is. The wide beam, though, makes the samaena a stable platform. It’s a better sailor in rough seas than a trireme. Bear this in mind when and if you have a choice of whether to offer battle. The higher the sea, the more advantage you give away to the enemy. As for exactly where they intend to fight — ” He turned to a map of the Aegean pinned to the side of Pericles’ tent. “ — we can only expect they know our routes as well as any of these islanders. They might decide to meet us in the Cyclades, or here, off Ikaros, or even Patmos, here. Or they may be content to keep their crews fresh and wait for us to come to them. That strategy has been used against us for years — waiting in port and hoping Athenians wear themselves out rowing to the battlefield. I say let them continue to hope!”
The generals laughed, and Menippus looked pleased with himself, until Pericles cleared his throat and refolded his arms. Menippus became serious again.
“The Samians have probably begged Pissuthnes for ships. The only fleets in the King’s service that are worth anything are Phoenician, and so we must expect their reinforcements to come up from the south and east, possibly from the Carian ports. In what numbers they will come is impossible to say. For this reason, we will be sending twelve ships to round up our allies in Lesbos and Chios, and four more to keep watch for the Phoenicians. Callisthenes will be leading the ships going south.”
At this acknowledgment, Callisthenes gave a curt nod, as if receiving this assignment conferred on him some air of valor. Dexion supposed, in fact, that intercepting the Phoenicians in all those stades of open water was an unlikely prospect, and all the distinction really meant was that brave Callisthenes would miss the battle with the Samians.
“So much, as I said, for the difficulties. Now to our advantages, which I think you’ll find much more compelling. First, upon our conquest of the island last year the Samians did not fight us at sea, with the happy result that their entire fleet was captured in port. In addition to the giving of hostages, the settlement specified the reduction of the Samian navy to just ten ships. Assuming that the oligarchs have had only a few months in power, they simply haven’t had enough time to build many more. We should therefore outnumber the opposition by at least four to one on the water.
“As for the land, from the size of the force we have gathered — larger than any ever sent against an island — you can see that we can land more than ten thousand men, which is equal to the entire free population of Samos Town, including the women and children. The town is walled, to be sure. But their old tyrant Polycrates seems to have spent more treasure on temples and aqueducts than on fortifications. The city walls should give us no particular trouble.
“More important than fleets and fortifications are the hearts of the men who use them. On this count as well, our friends, the Samians, have not covered themselves with glory. When the Greeks of Asia fought the forces of the Great King the first time, at Lade, the Samians betrayed their allies, the Milesians, in the thick of the battle. At Salamis, the Samians fought for Xerxes. At Mycale, they were counted among the King’s vassals, but were thought so unreliable that they were disarmed before the fight. Keep these events in your minds when you meet our adversaries. They will tell you all you need to know about the character of those who oppose us.”
Menippus looked to his patron, who made no move to come forward. Instead, the Olympian spoke from deep inside his own beard, where not even his lips seemed to move.
“Menippus has been most thorough. I have only one thing to add,” Pericles began in a tone that was low and deliberate, as if he were sharing a secret. “To my knowledge, none of you have served with me at your current rank, and so you cannot be familiar with the manner in which I prefer to handle crises like this.
“It may surprise you all that I am the same age as our friend Sophocles. How handsome he looks sitting there, and how haggard I have become! The reason is not hard to guess: though he would deny it, it is because he has spent the last twenty years around pretty chorus boys, while I have spent far too much time at this business of war.
“Believe me, then, when I tell you this: it is an honor, but not a pleasure, to deliver funeral speeches to grieving widows. Yes, our cause is just. If not for the perfidy of those we face, what need would the Athenians have for a navy? What democracy has ever started a war? Yet when a city has lost its young men to battle, whether in defence or in aggression, it is as if Mother Earth has revoked the promise of spring. Judging from the way things have gone since Plataea, it seems that the Greeks will miss a few springs yet, and we all have a few orations yet to give.
“In my view, the inconstancy of men like the Samians is not worth the life of a single loyal Athenian. It is true that we go to war to defeat the enemy. But it does not follow that we must sacrifice more lives than we need to accomplish our goal. I like to think I make a pact with every man who answers the call to fight with me: give me your best effort, place your fate in my hands, and I will do my best to assure you come home alive. Insofar as it is up to me, you might as well count yourselves immortal, for all the likelihood that I will send you to your deaths!
“As my colleagues in this campaign, I expect the same of you. And so if any of you think of yourselves as a latter-day Achilles, if you are another Tolmides lighting out for Boeotia on a prayer and too few troops, I say thank you for your enthusiasm, but your services are no longer needed.”
On this matter Pericles was not satisfied by unanimous verbal agreement. In addition, he sent Tampon forward to exact a formal oath from every man present, in the names of Helios, Ge, and Poseidon, and Athena Polias — but not bloodthirsty Tnyalios, who would see them all slain — that he would respect the scruples of the Supreme Commander.
*
For the final run to Samian waters they gave Sophocles a new flagship — a trim, fast sailer with a good crew, called the Helena. Poristes, the captain, was in peacetime only a squid fisherman. In times of war, however, he was much sought-after by contractors loathe to see their benefactions end up broken and scattered on distant beaches. Poristes had yet to lose a ship under his command, though he had lost an ear — burned away in battle, along with much of the skin from left side of his face. Sophocles could not resist staring at these wounds as the captain presented himself: the scars that seemed to shimmer and drip down his cheek like fresh plaster, and the nerve-damaged mouth that trailed downward from the sturdy arc of his smile.
“Pleased to have you aboard. Very pleased indeed,” he was telling Dexion, who wondered in turn if he was being made fun of, or if Poristes was rehearsing for a run at public office. And he went on, “for the man who wrote that play, a special honor: we have renamed the ship for you. She is now called the Antigone.”
At this favor he barely restrained a groan of embarrassment. For in what way could anyone think this a good idea, to name a ship of war for a self-righteous scofflaw, a denier of the very prerogatives of state power? It seemed as foolish as hiring a nursemaid named Medea. Had the man even seen the play?
But he had one good reason to be courteous to Poristes: the captain had agreed to take his son aboard as a passenger. Only with much difficulty had Sophocles found Iophon in the camp at Keos. The boy was sitting amongst a party of true rustic lowlife — the fourth or fifth sons of dirt-poor Oropian goatherds with nothing to lose but their lives and the shit under their fingernails. Upon seeing that Iophon was from Athens, and better yet the son of
a famous poet, they plied the boy with wine and flattery. When Bulos brought him back, the boy was deep in devotion to Dionysus.
“Do you think I brought you along to embarrass yourself and your family?” asked Sophocles. “Did I not tell you to find me as soon as you landed?”
To which Iophon drew his legs straight under him, saluted unsteadily, and lost his balance. He was unconscious before he hit the ground.
Across the width of the Aegean the Athenians saw little evidence of their enemies. Off the south coast of Ikaros a ship with a peculiar, wedge-shaped profile was glimpsed by a patrol. Two ships gave chase, but lost her in a squall. Callisthenes likewise failed to report any contact with the Phoenicians.
This quiet filled the expedition with apprehension; word spread of a huge Persian-Samian fleet hoping to ambush them from under the shadow of Mycale. Pericles, though personally impervious to rumors, had to take this one into his calculations: an order went out that the fleet would not make directly for Samos, but to rendezvous instead on the north shore of the island of Tragia.
This was an oblong potsherd of an island, no more than fifty stades at its widest, midway between Samos and Leros. No one could remember the last time an Athenian fleet had touched there. Some said it was uninhabited, or inhabited only seasonally by fishermen. Others insisted it was either a nest for pirates or, more worryingly, the spawning ground for a race of giant birds that plucked men from the decks of their ships and dropped them directly into the maws of their monstrous spawn.
What was sure was that Tragia had no large beaches, and so would force the fleet to disperse through its many tiny, unknown coves. The island’s sole advantage, it seemed, was its lack of a tall central peak, behind which an enemy fleet might hide. From there, with a favorable wind, the crossing to Samos Town would take only a few hours.
Antigone's Wake Page 6
