“I must urge you to consider again,” Demosthenes shook his head, “before our position here is ruined.”
“Demosthenes! Never let it be said that your efforts here have been unappreciated. What you have done here-Nicias, that dullard, would never have attempted it. You are the best we have-”
“I assure you that there’s plenty of time yet to make an attack before foul weather sets in.”
“-but if I need to pack you off for home, I will.”
The threat stopped Demosthenes’ tongue. Cleon continued, “Understand me, I would rather do this with you than without-but it will be done. Will I have your help?”
The Aetolians came down the slopes on both sides of the canyon, letting loose their half-barbarian cries. Most of his men crumpled instead of fought, too exhausted by their tramp through strange country to raise a sword in defense. When they were finished the little stream ran red with Attic blood. Their bones are still there, scattered and sorted by the spring flood into little piles, like with like-arms here, the tiny bones of the hands and feet there, swept farther down the creekbed-
The commanders were overheard to argue for quite some time, with neither willing to shift his position. The final word belonged to Cleon. The other got small revenge, though, when Cleon asked where he and his companions might pitch their tents.
“General, we need every patch of sand here for the ships and men! Those in your staff are free to make whatever arrangements they can on the ships. You, of course, are welcome as my guest here-if that will suffice.”
From the middle of their raccoon patches, Cleon’s small eyes shifted over the cramped space of Demosthenes’ tent, which smelled of salt, rotten seaweed, and the sweat of his host’s feet. The circumstances would not suffice. The campaign would have to be a short one.
4.
As it became clear that an attack would come at any time, Epitadas decided that the Lacedaemonians should make a sacrifice to Artemis. There were no goats or pigs on the island, so they were at first stymied by the problem of what sort of beast they should offer. The gods soon provided what seemed like a miracle: a pair of storks came out of the south, and after wheeling for some time above the wondering Spartans, landed a short distance down the slope. Namertes, the under-thirty who had helped Antalcidas push a boulder on an Athenian ship, was on guard not far away. He brought one of the creatures down by hitting it in the wing with a rock. Namertes ran forward and took the bird, grasping it by its great beak and gangling feet. The other soldiers cheered as he held his prisoner up in triumph.
Such a handsome prize inspired them to make a lavish gesture. Epitadas ordered a rude altar built out of stones of the old fort, and a flame kindled out of embers left under the dirt by the fire. Epitadas conducted the ritual himself, spraying his bleached tunic with its blood as he sawed off the stork’s head with his sword. Meanwhile, Frog stalked the back of the gathering, pacing stiff-backed like an effigy of himself, fretting over the propriety of offering a skinny bird to Artemis.
“The liver is without flaw,” Epitadas declared.
“And how would we know how the liver of a stork must look?” sneered Frog.
They separated the edible parts from the rest of the carcass. The goddess got the bones and entrails in the form of smoke from the fire, while the morsels of meat were divided between the officers and elder Spartiates. These, as it turned out, included Frog. Antalcidas went up to him as he was licking stork grease from his fingers, looking at him as he would someone fatally ill.
“Your opinion would mean more here, if you didn’t complain about everything.”
Frog turned his back, saying over his shoulder “So would yours, if you didn’t hide behind your brother.”
To the end, the man had a petty nature, but Antalcidas would take no offense. More and more, he had come to agree with Frog’s assessment of their predicament. To defy his brother was unthinkable-though not because of any private promises he had sworn to him or anyone else. For better or worse, a Spartan’s personal honor bound him to his commander. Frog’s honor, though, was not his concern. He resorted to an aphorism:
“The roused bull is better approached from the side.”
Frog departed without giving any sign he had heard this.
Late in the morning the garrison raised a polished shield to flash what they took to be their last message to the mainland. It was a simple question: “What are your instructions?”
They had to wait until the last moments of daylight to get their answer. From the hills over the bay, drenched in the blood-light of sunset, their superiors signaled back:
“The Spartans bid you to do what you think best, as long as it brings no dishonor.”
5.
The Terror was held back from regular blockade duty that night. Several hours before daybreak, all but a handful of the Athenian ships were deployed in a double line around the stockade. Each took on a complement of landing troops-Attic slingers and archers, hoplites in their heavy gear, allied peltasts who, from their accents, Xeuthes took to be from some wind-lashed Thracian shithole. His vessel was assigned a platoon of Kephallenian archers who grasped their bows with white knuckles and grave expressions on their faces. Where land troops often resorted to jokes to cover their anxiety at sea, these men settled down wordlessly along the rails, somber in the face of the coming task. For this was daunting business, to hunt Spartans.
More orders from Demosthenes: for the battle each captain would land on the island all the men in his top two oarbanks, with the lowest bank left behind to mind the ship. To that end the youngest, most able-bodied rowers were assigned topside and the eldest, most experienced oarsmen to the holds. This reversal of the natural order, under most circumstances so galling in its implications, was sullenly accepted by Patronices and Dicaearchus on the eve of this, the final attack. For them, the worst part was not the loss of status or the stench of the hold, but the taunting grins of Cleinias, Timon, and other guttersnipes as the senior citizens went aboard first.
“Watch yourself, Timon, or I’ll punch that face!” warned Patronices as he filed past.
“We’ll try to keep the lice off your seat covers,” replied Timon.
“Shut your traps, the lot of you!” Stilbiades roared. “You’ll wish you were back in the hold today, Timon! I guarantee there’s a Spartan spearhead out there with your name on it.”
When it was time for the officers to take their places Xeuthes noticed that Philemon’s cabin was empty. Searching the strand, he found the man soon enough, standing dry and safe on the sand with a wine cup in his hand. Philemon raised his drink as Stilbiades signaled that the ship was ready. Xeuthes saluted in response; his sponsor was a coward, of course, but he had sent the best part of himself-his money-into danger with his fellow citizens. It was better, in any case, to go into battle without the trierarch slicking the deck with his vomit.
Each captain drew pebbles from a sack to determine his ship’s place in the assault. Xeuthes got a black rock-the Terror would join the north squadron on the Ionian side. As Sphaerus’ unerring oars steered them through the Sikia Channel, Xeuthes looked out first at the heights of Koryphasion on the right, topped by the watch fires of the Athenian sentries. The lookouts had assembled on the face of the promontory closest to the channel, as if gathered to discuss prospects for the attack. Turning left, he examined the opposing eminence of Sphacteria: it was a great shoal of rock, ghastly white in the half moonlight, that broke abruptly into a sheer cliff on the bay side. This steepness barred any attack on the interior from the north. Large numbers of Spartans had been sighted up there during the day, with their main camp on the flats beyond the rise. Unlike the Athenians, the longhairs set no fires at night. The place seemed as abandoned then as the city of old Nestor, but Xeuthes believed he could sense them, sharpening their blades or praying to Artemis or doing whatever they did on the eve of bloodshed.