The Wooden Walls of Thermopylae (23 page)

No warmth or recognition of what we’d been to each other. In fact, the tone carried an edge of blame. But before I’d the chance to think of a reply,

“I will show you to where the purpose of your visit is waiting.”

She turned and walked away down the passage leading to the andron. Confused, I followed.

The lamps were lit but the place carried an air of gloom. A day already disturbingly unworldly had become more so. She paused before the door of the andron and motioned for me to enter. As I moved passed her, she whispered,

“But I don’t know what you’ll be able to achieve.”

Up close I caught the whiff of her breath: not perfumed as I remembered but unclean, foul as if some sickness resided within both her spirit and body. Thus disturbed and disordered I blundered into the ill-lit room, unprepared for what awaited me.

At the far end, beyond the effective range of the oil lamps, lying on one of the dining couches and shrouded in some form of bedding was the unmoving form of a man. I heard the door close behind me and the room seemed to grow darker.

I waited in the silence, wondering what was required of me. I began to detect the low pitched sound of irregular breathing. Then a muffled groaning: the type of noise made by those struggling to awake from the grip of a nightmare.
I felt I was myself drifting into a nightmare state, so unexpected was the turn of events.

The noises from the couch grew in intensity until with a shriek the bedding was thrown aside and the panicked figure sat upright. I found myself staring into the visage of the architect of the fleet and saviour of Athens: Themistocles.

Not very heroic, is it reader? And certainly something his enemies would have paid good money to know: but I’ve always been loyal. Not that I’m sure if that’s a virtue or a sign of inflexibility. Maybe that’s why the Gods sent me to Themistocles. After all, I’d seen Miltiades in a similar state more than once and been a comfort to him. I’ve been around enough powerful leaders to recognise the strain their ambition and the world place upon them.

They try to hide this, of course, but if you think about it, reader, it becomes clear that you don’t challenge the existing order of things without paying a price. For Themistocles, Miltiades and, I suspect, many others that price is a darkness of the spirit that periodically turns the world black and freezes the soul. Then courage becomes fear, command melts into vacillation and anxiety hangs like a shroud smothering light and hope. I’d had more than my own share of such experiences so I had no trouble recognising the malaise and its symptoms.

There was no point trying to talk to him that night and from the blank look in his eyes and the smell of stale wine in the room he was in no position to speak to me. I summoned the housekeeper and had her prepare a particular
potion Miltiades had used to clear his head when the black dog of despair shadowed him.

With difficulty I persuaded the great man to take it, and then I left the chamber. I waited outside the door and after some time heard the sound of retching which indicated that the potion was taking effect. So I stole away to the barn where I used to sleep at Brauron in younger and happier days.

It was a long and uncomfortable night but at least I had things to think on other than myself. I woke early to the familiar itching that sleeping in such a place induces, sluiced my head in the water butt and headed for the kitchens to find breakfast.

Cimon was already there; he said nothing, just nodded then continued to dip his stale crust into a bowl of oil. He was bleary eyed but otherwise looked in good condition. I wondered what to say but needn’t have bothered, he spoke for me.

“It would be a good day to ride the estate boundary, don’t you think, Mandrocles?”

With that last night was forgotten and whatever lesson there was to learn from it he’d taught himself. There was no need for me to say anything. Minutes later we were outside preparing the horses and shortly after rode through the gates, exchanging the sick rooms of Brauron for the healing air blown in from the sea. It was to be my last such day of peacetime careless country living for many years.

Cimon was a countryman at heart; if the Gods had not made other choices for him he could have settled as a contented rustic knight. You know; the type it’s become popular to lampoon in the new and cynical comedies that have recently become so fashionable with the Athenian mob.

The estate was in good order and alive with activity in the early summer sunshine. The land we rode across could have
been any demesne in Attica. Stony and thin soiled towards the coast where olives struggled amongst poor grazing for goats, but more fertile inland, good enough to support grain as well as vines. But Cimon’s delight in the estate was focused on the pasture land that lay beyond the vegetable plots, close to the farm itself. This is where he kept his horses.

For a man whose military reputation was forged at sea he would have made a great cavalry commander. He loved horses, had a gift in training them and they, for the most part, responded to something they could sense in him. We spent ages in the rough corral as he showed me his colts, stallions and brood mares. It was past noon when he selected two we would ride to the far end of the estate, the part that bordered the Bay of Marathon. It was a day of freedom and delight like the first one I’d spent in his company, far away in the Thracian Chersonese where his father had ruled as tyrant.

Then he was a boy and that land was his inheritance, now he was a man, older than I’d been at Marathon, and the land was part of the Persian Empire. Any betting man with a good eye for odds would wager that this land was destined for the same fate. We didn’t talk much: Cimon was the rare type of man who didn’t need to say much, his company was enough. When sober, that is. We rode to the sea, swam in a creek, I can’t remember much else; except …

Except for his one oblique reference to the preceding night.

“I’ll be coming back to Athens with you, Mandrocles, I have to begin my work, and war changes the natural order, allowing young men of my age a role.”

He smiled, as if to himself before adding,

“I’m to have the Athene Nike, Lysias will remain trierarch for the present, you will lead the marines. Themistocles reckons that between you, you’ll keep me safe.”

He touched his heels to the mare’s flanks and sped away. I followed in his train. On our return, as we walked sweat-stained into the house, it was like entering a different world to the one we’d left that morning; Themistocles greeted us, saying to me,

“I give you thanks for the physic, Mandrocles, it was most efficacious.”

He smiled as he said this but no further mention of his condition was forthcoming. Whatever it was that haunted him was gone. He was ready to face his destiny. Something else was missing too.

Elpinice, gone back to Callias, back to her duty like Themistocles and Cimon. She left a note, Themistocles gave it to me. Not much a few words, nothing about the past or love. But maybe something more than that. She thanked me, said her courage had returned. Although I’d done nothing really, it seems that the effect of my overnight visit had in a strange way liberated the three of them, woken them from nightmares.

Have patience with this rambling account of a visit to the countryside, reader, I promise you more action than you’ll be comfortable with in what follows. But for now, humour me and think on this.

I think I accomplished more for Athens in those twenty four hours of doing nothing than with all the blood I shed in defence of the city of the Goddess. I only really understand this now looking back.

Strange, isn’t it? Strange also that I never found out who it was that summoned me to Brauron. At the time I didn’t think about this. Aeschylus gave me the message but of course he’s long dead. Maybe I’ll ask him when I reach Hades.

Whatever devils were toying with Themistocles’s head in Brauron, he was clear of them. The next days were a blur of activity. He returned to Athens and convened a meeting
of the five hundred on Pnyx hill. The fact that he hadn’t the authority to call the meeting was no hindrance.

The city was frenzied, desperate to be led and walking up the hill to the assembly the noise, like a swarm of bees buzzing round the threatened hive, grew louder. It was to be my last night in Athens for some time and one to be remembered.

Themistocles gave them the leadership they wanted all right. He had two main points to put across: the first was that an Athenian delegation must leave next day for Corinth to put together a defensive alliance of free Greek states. Then, standing solid like an oak on the rostra, he moved to the issue at the forefront of his mind.

“Athenians, friends, patriots.”

I noted the deliberate absence of any mention of the Demos: there was no room for factionalism or polis style trickery now. We were all in this together. He was, of course, helped by the fact that all of his heavyweight opponents were in exile. It was this that made his next appeal all the more surprising.

“We stand here today on the verge of changing the world. However we need for a moment to turn our attention to foreign shores. Foreign shores where Athenians with whom in the past we have had our differences are straining to catch an echo of our words.”

He gave us a moment to let this sink in and for the more slow-witted amongst us to realise he’d moved onto another tack.

“Men who, admittedly, have made errors of judgement. But men who in the past have stood with us in the shield wall and dealt death-dealing blows to the barbarian invaders. Citizens, do you know of whom I speak?”

A disingenuous question if ever I heard one, but it was greeted by a full throated roar of assent.

“To punish these men for their intemperance was just
and right. But to punish them by denying them the right to defend their families, their friends, their City and the honour of the Goddess; is that not too cruel a penalty?”

Most of us had picked up where this was leading and shouted back.

“Yes, too cruel.”

“Do I detect that you, wise citizens, like me, wish to make the city whole again, to close ranks against the barbarians?”

A great roar of ‘yes’; even the stupid were up to speed by now.

“So friends, what must we do?”

He had the momentum now, even those with something to fear from the return of the exiles joined in the shouts of,

“Bring them home.”

Never one to curtail the satyr play element of such gatherings, Themistocles squeezed the last oil from the olive. Hamming it up like a second rate chorus touring rural theatres he affected a slightly quizzical look. Then he shouted back,

“Bring them home? Bring them all back home?”

“Yes, all of them.”

“Even Aristides?”

“Bring him home.”

“And Xanthippus?”

“Bring him home.”

“And Megacles?”

Just ahead of the beat some wag shouted,

“Even that fucker?”

And the crowd shouted,

“Bring the fucker home.”

It worked like magic, an act of, what the poets call, catharsis, it brought us all together. The motion was passed, so they’d all come home. In this way we were better prepared than at Marathon: the whole city would be on the same side. It was a good piece of theatre, Aeschylus would have
been proud. We drifted away and into the wine shops bars and brothels.

Later, sitting with the inner core of the crew of Athene Nike in the Bald Man’s bar, I watched as a drunk and beaming Ariston finished his cup and shouted across the bar,

“And Theodorus?”

The crowded bar shouted back as one man.

“Bring him home, bring the fucker home.”

Corinth is a strange place. The town sits on a narrow isthmus between two sea gulfs guarding the only land route to the land of Pelops: guarding Sparta. It’s the strategic key to the Southern mainland, which explains why Corinth swaps sides so often. The modern town lies at the foot of a huge spur of rock towering overhead. Ancient Corinth is at the top, complete with massive walls built during the age of heroes. The harbour front stretches along a series of creeks affording good protection for their fleet. For trade it enjoys the best position in Greece.

But, and it’s a big but: the Corinthians can never rest easy knowing any war in mainland Greece is going to involve them even if they’re non-combatants. I think this explains why they have a reputation for trickery and false friendship. Most of the time, despite our rivalry, we’ve stayed on good terms but I fear that soon the policies of Pericles the onion head will make war with them and through them the Spartans inevitable. But pardon me, reader, I get ahead of myself.

The night after the Pnyx meeting we overnighted near Salamis before pulling for Corinth on a smooth sea next day. The Athene Nike was near to its full complement of experienced men with a leavening of the most promising novices, so it was as close to an elite crew as the Athenian
fleet boasted. Lysias was trierarch, Ariston at the helm, Themistocles in command: the Athene Nike not yet having been passed to Cimon as he’d anticipated. I commanded the fighting men but the bosun was a temporary fill in. This latter didn’t matter so much as we swept down the coast of the Megarid with a following wind.

To my surprise, we changed course and pulled into the port of the town of Megara. I’d seen Themistocles exchange a whispered conversation with Ariston before the manoeuvre. For a moment I wondered if Lyra would be there. She wasn’t, of course, but standing on the dockside was a familiar burly figure saying goodbye to young women with two infants. He waved casually to the boat as we stood offshore, not wanting to become entangled in the portside procedures. Then nimbly jumped down into fishing skiff and was rowed out to us greeted by shouts of,

“Bring the fucker home.”

Thus relieved of blood guilt by war, Theodorus rejoined his mates. He looked none the worst for his experience and his brutal good humour strengthened us. I felt surprisingly strong emotion as I embraced him. He said to me through the grin splitting his beard,

“Remember, boy, just because you’re now in charge of these useless landsmen passengers doesn’t mean you don’t do what I tell you to.”

In Corinth I found out why Themistocles had been paralysed by fear at Brauron. Corinth was packed with refugees, agents of the Great King, representatives of the Greek states heading for the meeting in Sparta and representatives of the states refusing to go. Corinth seethed with deceit and treachery; no one was what he seemed. But on one thing everyone agreed.

The Great King was ready to eat up all of Greece. We were
briefed on this by Brasidas, acting as an agent of the Ephors after we met him in the house of a Corinthian democrat in the city. I’ll give the Spartans this, once they decide on something they waste no time. To our surprise Brasidas had with him someone I’d no desire to meet.