This time they sent an old Spartiate named Zeuxippos. As he regarded the cadaverous fellow, the old man’s eyes shot back a look of mildly tempered amusement, as if the sight of anyone not Spartan bearing arms seemed somehow absurd. Demosthenes responded with the condescension Athenians typically reserved for Attic and Euboean hicks who came into town on festival days. And why, wondered Demosthenes, did the longhairs always send a new man for every errand? Was it something as straightforward as not permitting any one person to become indispensable? After years of fighting the Lacedaemonians, he suspected that the reason was both simpler and subtler: they must believe that any one of them had to be competent, by the mere fact that he was a Spartiate.
“By the terms of the truce, the Peloponnesians handed over all the Athenian ships they had captured,” Zeuxippos was saying. “Need we remind you that with the resumption of the war, you are now bound by oath to return our property to us?”
Demosthenes stuffed his beads into a fold in his cloak. “Honored guest, what you say is correct-but incomplete. By my understanding of the terms, the smallest violation by either side nullifies the agreement.”
“And how have the Lacedaemonians failed to keep their oaths?”
“In what ignorance do the Spartans keep their elders! Nor am I obliged to tell you how you have wronged us-though I will, just to show you how Athenians value their agreements. A small party of our allies was attacked during a foraging trip to the north of Pylos. One man was killed. And so by the terms of the armistice, we are released from our obligation to return the ships.”
Zeuxippos appeared ready either to laugh in Demosthenes’ face or assault him with his veiny fists. “I think you speak of an invasion of our territory by bandits. The attempt was driven into the sea. Have I heard you rightly-did you say the Athenians were in league with these troublemakers? If so, the violation was on your part, not ours.”
“It is my understanding, sir, that the Messenians are the rightful owners of this territory, and that it is therefore impossible for them to ‘invade’ what is already theirs.”
“Take care, Demosthenes! We are not disputing in the stoa here. These are matters older than you know, and perhaps beyond your understanding. If you wish to speak of what is ‘rightful,’ know that the rabble you call your ‘allies’ swore before the gods never to return from exile.”
“Their grandfathers did, perhaps,” replied Demosthenes. “But that is nothing to us-they fight with us now, and as I have said, the smallest violation nullifies our commitment.”
On schedule, Leochares begged to interrupt.
“General, the fleet is ready.”
“So you see I must leave you now,” said Demosthenes. When Zeuxippos said nothing, he could not resist adding, “If you wish anything to eat or drink before you leave-wine, fruit-please ask the steward. We are very well provisioned here.”
Zeuxippos turned himself around. Before he left, he leaned hard on his staff and addressed Demosthenes over his shoulder.
“I wonder if they will elect you general again, Demosthenes, when you fail to learn the lessons of Aetolia.”
It was a blow well struck. Demothenes colored despite himself, but could think of nothing to say. He was rescued when Leochares made an unexpected return.
“Begging your pardon, but we have word from our lookouts on Koryphasion.”
“What is it? Have the Peloponnesians found the courage to attack?”
“No, General-it’s the island. It’s burning.”
VIII
Dispatches
1.
Cleon had a sophisticated sense of which speakers to attend to and which to ignore. Just then there was a youngster from Scambonidae on the platform, probably some sweet-cheeked scion of a rich father too frightened to risk his own name in public, propounding the kind of moderation that lost wars. Clean only heard one or two words at a time-a weakling verb, some overwatered adjective-but that was enough to know the speech wasn’t worth his attention.
Instead, he focused on the message in front of him, written just days before by a Messenian informant outside of Pylos. Through his network of merchant guest-friends scattered from the far west to the borders of Attica, he got his information, delivered by mounted courier, days before the dispatch ships rounded the Peloponnese. In ordinary times this was a handy advantage; during crises like this, it would be decisive in the defeat of all his enemies, near and far… . As the fire was hidden from the Athenians by the high ground of the island, it was first seen from the glow it cast over the south end of Sphacteria. Some time later a ship returned from patrol with news of its outbreak in the dry brush of that area. Demosthenes was at first suspicious of this story, for the vessel was manned exclusively by Acharnians, who had been known to exceed their orders in their zeal to harm the enemy. At length the captain of the ship, Xeuthes, son of Cratinus, convinced the general that the Lacedaemonians were themselves to blame, having foolishly allowed a campfire to go out of control. As Xeuthes was prepared to swear by the name of his father, who fought the barbarian at Salamis, Demosthenes was convinced that no unmanly treachery had been done on his account.
In the following days the fire spread to an extent that amazed both Athenians and Peloponnesians. The south was scorched overnight, and when dawn brokea great tower of smoke was seen rising over the island. The lookouts on the ships said they could follow the progress of the blaze by the streams of embers, which ignited the vegetation that was downwind and weakened by drought. The crackling of the flames was heard from the water; the explosion of certain tree trunks made thunderclaps that echoed from one end of the bay to the other…
He reached the last line of the message just as the speaker concluded. From the left of the Assembly came a smattering of applause which, by his internal measuring stick, he judged to be of no threat to his interests. The herald, holding the myrtle at the end of his outstretched arm, did not need to pose the question, “Who wishes to speak?” before a familiar face made the slightest of affirmative gestures. The citizens of Athens broke into an uproar as Cleon mounted the rostrum. The dispatch he had been reading was now safely inside a fold of his chiton, tucked reassuringly next to his heart.
“Gentlemen, we have heard much today about what is advisable, just, or prudent about this war. I would not dare to impugn the motives of those who urge policies with which I disagree. For our system is unique in the freedom under which such debate is held, where any man, rich or poor, educated or ignorant, may have his say, and in so doing place his wisdom in the service of the state. Instead of demeaning these deliberations with the language of faction, I will therefore confine my remarks to the facts as we know them-and only to the facts.”
The cacophony of cheers and catcalls died away, for they all recognized that Cleon had decided to explore a new key. Today, he would out-Nicias Nicias’ calm, detached, measured drone.
“All can agree on how matters now stand. It is fifty days since the Lacedaemonians were trapped. The effort to reduce the island has been under the nominal command of our esteemed Nicias, though he has yet to leave the city to take direct control. That task he has left to his deputy on the scene, Demosthenes, son of Alcisthenes, which I agree to be only right and proper since Demosthenes not only conceived the operation, but has been in Pylos from the beginning. To this end a sum of three hundred talents has already been spent, with every reason to believe that significant further monies will be required. What, then, have we gained from this expenditure of time and resources?
“Since the end of the truce, we are told, no supplies have reached the garrison except what one man or a small boat may slip past our blockade. No blockade mounted so close to an enemy coast can be ‘watertight, ’ the admirals say. Fair enough! But if that is so, to what degree can we expect this strategy of delay to ever achieve success? There is no sign that the Lacedaemonians are in desperate straits at the moment. Indeed, the Spartiates who once seemed so desperate to gain the return of their sons have never returned to the Assembly with better terms. How confident those old men of the Gerousia must be! How heartily they must be laughing at all of us!