The troops deployed upon the water-front and on the quays; they filed along gang-planks, or were loaded into boats with their gunwales dipping, and ferried to the ships. Kinsmen and friends ran up for last farewells. An old man would bless his son, a lad run to his father with some gift the mother had sent after him; or two lovers might be parting, the youth being too young to go with his friend. That day not all the tears had been left at home with the women. But to me it seemed the greatest of all festivals, better than the Panathenaia in the Great Year. As the proverb tells us, war is sweet to the untried.
Noise sounded again between the walls. Someone shouted “Long life to the Generals!” We began to hear horses and to see their dust.
Presently there passed below us Lamachos on his borrowed hack; tall and saturnine, greeting old soldiers when they cheered him, indifferent to the rest. Then Nikias, gravely splendid, his white hair garlanded, fresh from the sacrifice, his soothsayer riding by him with the sacred tripod, knives and bowl. The leaden tinge of skin that he always had only added dignity to him. People reminded each other as he passed of the ancient oracle, that in Sicily the Athenians should win lasting fame.
There was a restless pause then, like the quiet before the sea gets up. And the many-voiced muttering that came nearer was like the sound of a great wave, sucking a stony beach, and drawing the pebbles resistless in its wake. Then a youth with a clear voice shouted, like a battle-paean, “Alkibiades!”
He burst on us like the sun. His armour was worked with golden stars; his purple cloak hung as if a sculptor had set the folds. His groom rode behind him with his famous shield, the City’s scandal and delight, blazoned with Eros wielding a thunderbolt.
His opened helmet showed his face, the profile of Hermes, and the short curled beard. His chin was up; his blue eyes, wide and clear, seemed open on an emptiness demanding to be filled. It seems to me now that they were saying, “You wished for me, Athenians; I am here. Do not question me, do not hurt me; I am the wish sprung from your heart, and if you wound me your heart will bleed for it. Your love made me. Do not take it away; for without love I am a temple forsaken by its god, where dark Alastor will enter. It was you, Athenians, who conjured me, a daimon whose food is love. Feed me, then, and I will clothe you with glory, and show you to yourselves in the image of your desire. I am hungry: feed me. It is too late to repent.”
The crowd murmured and swayed, like a moving shoal drawn by the tide. Then from some doorway a hetaira leaned out, and blew him a kiss. He waved, his clouded eyes warming like the sea in spring; and the cheering broke forth, and roared about him. His smile appeared, like the smile of a boy crowned at his first Games, young and enchanted, embracing all the world; and they cheered him out of sight. Adonis had passed through the street before him; mashed by the horse-hoofs, the strewn anemones stained the dust like blood.
The Generals joined their ships, the bustle grew less and ended. A trumpet blew a long call. Then one heard only a dying mutter, the slap of the sea on the jetties, the cry of gulls, and the bark of some dog grown uneasy in the hush. The small clear voice of a distant herald cried the Invocation. It was taken up in the ships and on the shore; the sound flowed and rolled like surf; on each poop gold or silver flashed, as the trierarch lifted his cup to pour the offering. Then ringing across the water came the paean, and the shouts of the pilots, bidding the ships away. The chantymen began to give the time to the rowers; up went the great sails painted with suns and stars and birds. So they put out to sea, the crews answering song for song, and the pilots calling out to each other challenges to race. I saw Nikias’ white beard flutter as he prayed with raised hands; and on the poop of Alkibiades’ trireme, which already was standing away, a little shining figure like a golden image, no bigger than the Adonis dolls the women had carried in the streets.
The sails filled; the oar-blades all together beat up and down, bright-feathered wings; like swans the ships flew singing towards the islands. Tears stung in my eyes. I wept for the beauty of it, like many more. Happy for the Athenians, if the tears that followed afterwards had been like mine.
5
QUITE SOON AFTER THIS, I got the news that Kritias was in prison.
An informer swore to seeing him, on the night when the Herms were broken, helping to assemble and instruct the gang, in the portico of the Theatre. The moon had been bright, the man said, and he could name most of the leaders.
I could not imagine, when I heard this, why I had not known it must be Kritias from the very first; for, being young, I supposed he was the only person of his kind in the world. When I walked past the prison there was a knot of women outside, some of them with children, sobbing and wailing. But I could not believe that Kritias had anyone to weep for him.
My triumph was brief, however, for his cousin Andokides, who was one of the accused, offered a full confession in return for immunity. The substance of it was that he knew about the plot, but had an alibi; Kritias was innocent too. Then he named the guilty ones, including some of his kinsmen. These were put to death at once; so was the first informer, for perjury. Some people said Andokides had made up the whole statement for the sake of the immunity, rather than risk his trial. No one knows the truth to this very day.
The dead were scarcely cold, when news came that the Thebans were on the frontier, making ready to invade.
We had just sat down in school when this was shouted outside. Armour began to sound in the street, as the citizens turned out to the mustering-places. Our trainer looked in, calling out to the master that he was off. Then the herald’s trumpet blew from the temple roof of the Twins, calling the horsemen. At this Mikkos, knowing he could do no more with us, said we should be wanted at home, and dismissed the class.
I found my father standing in his armour, slinging on his sword, while Sostias brought him his spears to choose from. He said, “Since you are here, Alexias, go to the stable and look over Phoenix for me. See that his frogs are clear, and the big saddle-cloth is strapped on to cover his belly.”
When I got back he had his helmet on. He looked very tall.
“Father,” I said, “can I ride Korax and come too?”—“Certainly not. If things go badly and they call for boys of your age, go where you are told, and obey your orders.” Then he put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Though we may be here or there, defending the City we shall be side by side.” I replied that I hoped he would have no cause to be ashamed of me. When he had embraced my mother, she gave him his knapsack with three days’ food in it. He stooped under the lintel, then vaulting on his spear leaped upon Phoenix, and rode away.
The City seethed all day. Everyone thought the Thebans had had a signal from the conspirators, and that the plot had come out in the nick of time. Some said it was the Spartans who were coming, and the plan had been to open the gates to them. The Senate marched up to the High City and sat all night.
My mother and I worked about the house, making everything fast. She talked cheerfully to the slaves, and said she remembered her own mother doing all this when she was a child. I went with our old slave Sostias to buy food in case of siege. But when dark fell and the troops were still standing by, I got tired of sitting indoors; so I said, “Father would be glad of some wine, I expect, since everything is quiet.”
She gave me leave. I said she must keep Midas at hand, so, lighting a torch, I went up alone to the Anakeion. The temple precinct was full of the smell of horses, and the sound of their treading and snorting. High above the picket-lines I could see the Great Twin Brethren, the friends of the horseman, leading their bronze chargers against the stars. I put out my torch, for one could see by the light of the watch-fires; and I asked for my father by his name, and his father’s name, and the name of his deme.