The Last of the Wine (26 page)

There is a certain gesture of refusal which everyone knows but no gentleman employs. I wished, however, to be explicit. “You have got your crown,” I said to him. “Go and play with that.”

As he was going, I heard Lysis say, “Alexias.” He sounded angry with me. I don’t know how much he had understood. I bent down and said, “Here I am; what is it?” But his eyes grew dull again. He looked very weary. The cold of evening came on; but I was afraid that if I went for more clothes he would try to stand. It would soon be dark. Tears stirred in me like sickness; but I dared not weep, lest he should hear.

By now the dressing-room outside had emptied; a footstep sounded loud in it. Young Plato came in quietly, and stood looking down. While we were watching the fight he had been wearing his ribbons; but they were gone now. I said, “Can you find me a cloak, Plato? Lysis is cold.”—“You look cold yourself,” he said. After a short time he came back with two shepherds’ blankets; I laid them over Lysis, and put my clothes on. Plato watched in silence; then he said, “They have given the crown to Sostratos.”—“Yes?” said I. “And the war’s over in Troy; what else is new?”—“This is new to me. What does Sostratos think he has got? What good? What pleasure? What did he want?”—“I don’t know, Plato. You might as well ask why the gods allow it.”—“The gods?” he said; raising his heavy brows and drawing them down again, just as he does today. “What use would it be for the gods to do anything, if it’s not enough that they are? Have you had any supper? I brought you something to eat.” I felt warmer for the food. When he had gone, I saw that both the blankets were new; I think he must have bought them himself in the market.

At nightfall, they carried Lysis to the precinct of Asklepios; next day he could speak sensibly and take food, though because of his broken ribs it hurt him to move. He did not talk much, and I let him rest. I wanted to stay with him, but he said I must watch the chariot-races; it seemed to fret him, so I went. They were held with great splendour, to the glory of horse-loving Poseidon, who had not been moved by my horse of bronze. I understood that this was the great day of the Games, which every Corinthian came to see, and that no one was thinking about the long-race or the pankration.

When I got back, Lysis seemed stronger. He said he was going to get up next day, to see me crowned. This was too much for me, and I told him the story of the long-race. He listened quietly, frowning a little, rather in thought than in anger or surprise. “Don’t brood on it,” he said. “You ran a fine race; and very likely no one was bribed at all. Any fool could have picked you out as the fastest, and would have made sure of you before throwing money away on the others. I was watching the Cretan, and he looked spent to me.”—“Perhaps. But now I shall never know it.”—“Why think of it then? We must take the world as we find it, Alexias.” Then he said again, “But you ran a fine race. You had them all in your hand.”

Next morning was the procession to the temple; and the winners were crowned before Poseidon. There was a great deal of music and ceremony, much more than at home. The priests of the precinct would not let Lysis get up. I went back to him afterwards, and he made me show him my crown. I had had enough of their parsley garnishing; but when I threw it in a corner he told me sharply not to play the fool, but to go out and celebrate in Corinth with the others.

It was evening. The sun was shining on the mountain with its wreath of walls. He must have known that if he waited till after the Games, he would never climb it. “What should I do in Corinth?” I said. But he became impatient, and then angry, and said I should be talked of if I stayed away. Then I knew what troubled him, that they might say he had kept me back from the revels out of envy; so I said I would go.

There is a great deal of coloured marble in Corinth, and much bronze, some of it gilded; they burn perfume in the shop doorways; the tavern where we drank had a talking bird in a cage outside, that whistled and said “Come in.” I was with the runners and the boxers; then some of the wrestlers arrived. I got drunk as quickly as I could; and for a little while Corinth looked quite gay to me. We walked through the streets singing, and bought garlands to wear; then we went into a bath-house, but it turned out to be a respectable one, and we were asked to leave. Someone had got pushed in the plunge-bath, and walked dripping water; one or two flute-girls, who had been picked up on the way, played us along. We came to a tall porch of slender columns, ornamented with doves and garlands; someone said, “Here’s where we’re going, to the Girls of Aphrodite. Come on.” When I would not go in, he tried to drag me, and I struck him in the face. Then someone else, whom the wine had made genial, stopped the fight, and said we would all go to Kallisto’s house instead. It had a fountain in the courtyard, of a girl holding her breast, which spouted water. Kallisto made us welcome, and a boy and girl acted the mime of Dionysos and Ariadne, while we drank more wine. A little later five or six of the wrestlers calling for music jumped up to dance the kordax, and started throwing off their clothes. They called to me to join them, but I was past dancing even if I would. One of the girls lay down with me, and presently took me away. When I woke she made a great tale of my performance, as they do with young men to make them pay well. I can’t even recall whether I did anything or not.

Two days later we went back to Athens. Lysis could not sit a horse, his bones not having knit, and had to be carried to the ship on a litter. The passage was rough, and he was in pain all the way. Agios the pilot came to see us, and said it was Chios the Spartan ships were making for; he had employed his time in Corinth better than I. So we made haste back, to bring this news to the City.

That is all I have to relate of the Isthmian festival, the first of the ninety-second Olympiad. Since Theseus founded the Games to honour his father Poseidon, they had been held every second year in the same place, before the same god; and if you ask me why this year’s Games should have brought forth something different from those before them, I cannot tell.

T
HE SHIPS WE HAD
espied making for Chios were met, defeated, and driven aground: but Alkibiades, with his friend Antiochos the pilot, took it just the same. Tales of his craft and courage came back to us every day. You could hear people saying in the Agora that we had thrown away more than we knew, when we exiled him, and that before he went to Sicily he had asked for a trial, like an innocent man. A rumour was current also that he had taken to the sea at the right time; for King Agis’ hatred was glowing red-hot, and in Sparta Alkibiades never slept without a guard.

But one day when I called on Lysis at home, he said, “Come in and see Father, Alexias, and talk to him for a while. Talk about horses, or anything but the war. Today’s news has hit him worse than I can understand myself, bad as it is.”

I had been in the City, and had met the same thing in other old men. I went in to do my best. Demokrates received me kindly; but he looked five years older, and would talk of nothing but the news. “I feel today,” he said, “as if I had seen Perseus sell Andromeda to the dragon for a bag of silver. Sparta and the Medes! That I should live to see the blood of Leonidas treat with the Great King, and sign away Ionia to him for money! Is there no honour left under the sun?”—“It’s to pay their rowers, sir,” I said, as if I were called on to defend them. “They are too few to row themselves, even if they could sink their pride to it; and they can’t trust themselves to Helots.”

“When my father was a boy,” he said, “his father took him to Thermopylae after the battle, to learn from the fallen how men should die. He often described it to me; the friends lying where the living had stood to defend the body of the slain, as they did in Homer’s day; and those who had fought till their weapons broke in their hands, locked to the dead barbarians with teeth and nails. And now it has come to this. How quietly you young men take it.”

I felt for him; but just then I was more concerned for his son. Lysis’ bones had mended well; except for the scar on his brow, the fight with Sostratos had left no mark on his body. But he had ceased to practise the pankration. For some time he kept this from me; he took enough exercise to keep in condition; but often he would tell me he was going to the palaestra, and I would find him in the colonnade; or sometimes I could not find him at all. When I saw how things were, I don’t think it came as any great surprise to me. I remembered how, when Polymedes and the rest had taken me up, he had withdrawn; he could never stoop to base antagonists. He had said nothing to me, lest he should seem to slight my crown. He was as honourable as always, but less open than he had been. He would fall into silences; and when I asked him his thoughts, he would be short with me.

We were less hard-pressed in the Guard, the war being fought so much at sea. I found a freeman who would do something on the farm for a small wage and a share of the crop; we only put in quick-growing things.

One fine summer morning in the City, I had just put the last touches on our house, which I had been fresh-whitening. I had been doing it each daybreak till people were about; for though everyone knew nowadays that his neighbour was putting his hand to slaves’ work, no one cared to have it noticed. Still, now it was done I was well pleased with it; so was my mother, especially with the courtyard, where I had painted the tops of the columns red and blue. I had had a bath, dressed my hair, and put a clean mantle on; I was carrying the walking-staff I used in the City, a good black-wood one that had been my father’s. After the dirty work, I felt the pleasure of trimness, as I paused in the porch to take a last look at my handiwork. When I turned my face to the street, I saw a stranger approaching the house.

He was a raw-boned old man, who had been tall when he was straight; he walked halting, and leaning on a stick cut from the thicket, one of his feet being hurt and wrapped in a dirty rag. His white hair was ragged, as if he had trimmed it himself with a knife, and he wore a short tunic of some drab stuff, such as poor workmen wear, or slaves. He was dirty enough for either of these, yet bore himself like neither. He was looking at our house, making straight for it; and seeing this, I felt the sinking of some unknown fear; he seemed to me like the messenger of bad news. I stepped forward from the porch, waiting for him to speak; but when he saw me, he only stared. His drawn and bony face with its month-old stubble was weathered nearly black; his eyes, being grey, showed in it piercingly. I had been about to hail him, and ask him whom he was looking for. At first I did not know what it was that kept me from asking. I only knew I must not ask.

His eyes moved past me to dwell on the courtyard. Then he looked again at me. I felt before his silent expectation a creeping in my flesh. He said, “Alexias.” Then my feet carried me down into the street; and my voice said, “Father.”

I don’t know how long we stood there; I daresay not many moments. I said, “Come in, sir,” scarcely knowing what I did; then collecting myself a little, praised the gods for his preservation. On the threshold he stumbled with his lame foot; I reached out to help him, but he righted himself quickly.

He stood in the courtyard, looking about him. I remembered Lysikles, and it seemed strange to me now that I should have taken his word without any doubts, seeing how broken the man had been and how his tale had wandered. What had put me in mind of him was the sight of my father’s hand, calloused and knotted, with dirt sealed into the cracks and scars. My mind was at a stop. I groped for words to say to him. I have felt this painful dumbness in war, at the sight of a brave enemy flung down before me in the dust; but in youth one does not recognise such thoughts, nor indeed ought one to understand them. I made again, in different words, the speech about the gods I had made before. I said we had despaired of this happiness. Then, beginning to come to myself, I said, “I will go before you, sir, and tell Mother.”

“I will tell her myself,” he said, and limped towards the door. He moved quite fast. In the doorway he turned and looked at me again. “I did not think you would grow so tall.” I made him some answer. I had grown a good deal; but it was the bowing of his back that had brought us eye to eye.

I reached the doorway behind him, and then paused. My heart was pounding, my knees felt like water and my bowels were loosened within me. I heard him go into the women’s rooms, but I could not hear anyone speak. I went away; at last, after what I thought must be a proper time, I went through to the living-room. My father was sitting in the master’s chair, with his foot in a bowl of water whose steam smelled of herbs and of a putrid wound. Before him knelt my mother, with a cloth in her hands, cleaning the place. She was weeping; the tears were running down, her hands not being free to dry them. It came into my mind for the first time that I ought to have embraced him.

The walking-stick was still in my hand. I remembered the corner where I had found it first, and put it back there.

Drawing near them, I asked him how he had come. He said from Italy, in a Phoenician ship. His foot was puffed up to twice its size, and green matter came from it. When my mother asked if the shipmaster had trusted him for the fare, he said, “They were short of a rower.”

“Alexias,” said my mother, “see if your father’s bath is ready, and that Sostias has not forgotten anything.” I was going, when I heard a sound come near, and the breath stopped in my throat; it was I who had forgotten something.

The child Charis came in, singing and chattering. She was holding a painted clay doll I had brought her from Corinth, which she was talking to; so she had come into the middle of the room before she looked up. Then she must have noticed the smell, for she stared with round eyes, like a bird. I thought, “Now he sees how pretty she is, surely he will take pleasure in what he made.” He leaned forward in his chair; my mother said, “Here is our little Charis, who has heard so many tales of you.” My father drew down his brows; but he did not seem very angry or surprised, and my breath came easier. He held out his hand and said, “Come here, Charis.” The child stood still; so I came forward, to lead her up to him. But as soon as I tried to move her, her face grew red, and her mouth turned downward; she hid herself in the skirt of my mantle, wailing with fright. When I tried to carry her to him, she clung to my neck and screamed. I dared not look at him. Then I heard my mother say the child was timid, and cried at any strange face; the first lie I had ever heard her tell.