Antigone's Wake Read online

  A Samian came forward with shield raised. Sophocles swung at him, the blade lodging in the rim. The Samian took his turn, striking Sophocles’ shield in the center. The impact of the blow seemed to reverberate back through the man’s body, shaking Dexion’s loose. This left the blade mere inches from the Samian’s neck. Using only his wrist, Sophocles flicked the point at him, applying a three-inch slash that spanned the jugular. The Samian turned to him, his eyes just visible under his visor: their expression told of some tender hurt, as if the poet had disparaged him at a banquet.

  He looked down. Another enemy was on his hands and knees, reaching out to retrieve his dropped shield. Sophocles stood over him, measuring the spot in the middle of his back where his cuirass didn’t protect him. The Samian froze over the shield, his left hand stilled in the gripcords; the blade passed into his body with a viscous crack, like the butcher’s axe into some old, spent milk cow.

  It went on like this for as long as the sun took to rise. The Athenians, surprised, took some time to assemble enough men to force the Samians back. The enemies who managed to penetrate the lines stumbled into Sophocles and a few other swordmen. The latter struck them down, then used their fallen bodies to brace their feet for the next wave.

  When he finally had a moment to look around, Sophocles saw that he and the Athenian line were standing farther from the tents than they had begun, almost abreast of the ruined shieldbreaker. All up and down the siege line the defenders were turning the Samians to flight.

  The enemy sally had failed. It had left its mark, however. Dexion stood in a wide band of earth plowed up by the frantic manoeuvres of all those desperate feet. Bodies peppered the churned landscape. As the flies began to mass, tormenting the eyes of the fallen who still lived, Athenians with grim faces did their rounds, using their butt-spikes to pierce the hearts or cave the skulls of the survivors.

  It was one of the Athenians who finally paused, smiled, and pointed at the muddy, blood-smeared figure of Sophocles. All his usual self-consciousness, which had vanished in the time he fought, came rushing back to him. He wondered if he had made a fool of himself, pretending to know how to swing a sword.

  But it was not his hackwork that became the stuff of camp legend that day. Instead, it was the way he had rushed from bed to battle with everything he needed except his modesty. By the end of the morning, all around the great circuit of the walls, everyone heard the story, had a good laugh, and passed it on.

  “Did you hear about our poet general? He went into battle today as naked as Achilles!”

  *

  The poet had learned the meaning of awe. Sitting in his tent with hands shaking, he felt as if he had been passed over by some capricious demon. Though it was not uncommon for a man of fifty-five to fight in the line, the sight of so many younger, deader men made his survival seem perverse. Perverse, he thought — or purposed. He found his canteen, poured it over himself. There was a sensation of burning on his brow that seemed to sear away all moisture, draping him in steam. Clearly the gods were sparing him for some greater design.

  He came out. Samians from the city were out with draught-horses now, permitted by truce to drag away their dead. Poristes was standing there, watching the reclamation with a doleful expression. Dexion thought he understood the captain’s mood.

  “Yes, it could have been us,” he said.

  Poristes turned, nodded toward the water.

  “It’s not over yet.”

  Dexion followed his gaze. Out on the straits, the enemy samaenas had reappeared — half a dozen stalking the approaches to the breakwater, with another two far to the south, under the shadow of Mycale. The triremes of the Athenians were nowhere afloat.

  The poet turned back to Poristes. The look on the unburnt side of his face was now the same as the disfigured half, grim in its immobility.

  “Where did they come from?”

  “We invited them out,” spat the captain, “when we let Pericles go with all those ships.”

  “So what does it mean?”

  “It means the Ionians own the sea! They can get food in by water, and they can keep our supplies out. We’re the ones under siege now.”

  Poristes was never one to hide his worries. Dexion looked around: the Athenians still surrounded Samos Town, and the shieldbreakers that had survived the attack were already bombarding the city. Who could doubt which side was winning?

  Yet events proved the captain right. Before long, Dorus, Menippus’ aide, turned up looking for Poristes. When he came out of his tent, the latter was already dressed for the open sea — cloak of oiled leather, sun-hat, felt anti-slip boots.

  “How many ships are you sending?” he asked Dorus.

  “Two. You, and the Terror. You are instructed to stay at sea day and night until you catch up to the fleet. The course they had planned would have taken them west of Tragia, then into the lee of Akrite, probably beaching at Leros last night, and possibly Cos today — ”

  “Don’t tell me my trade, boy!” Poristes scolded the slave. “We were picked because we know where Pericles will be — and we’re fast.” He turned to Dexion. “Won’t be able to accommodate you this time, I’m afraid. Oarsmen and crew only. We’ll be flying high in the water.”

  Sophocles shrugged. He had, in fact, no intention of going back to sea until he absolutely had to.

  The departure of the Antigone and the Terror drew spectators to the beaches from every quarter of the army. A squadron of four samaenas was waiting offshore, rams to landward. To confuse them, the Athenians seemed to prepare half a dozen hulls for launching, though most of them lacked good crews, equipment, or pilots familiar with local waters. At the critical moment only the two ships designated for escape went into the sea. The Samian oars came down, and the contest began.

  As the soldiers cheered them on from the beach, the triremes struck out in roughly parallel courses. The samaenas were less than a stade away when the Antigone pivoted southeast and the Terror southwest, drawing two enemy ships after each. By a narrow margin, the Samians got their noses into the Terror’s path, and she was forced to turn due west. This put her on a course toward the beaches near Hera’s sanctuary. She continued to push hard, trying to outpace her pursuers, but she soon ran out of water. The samaenas closed, hoping to ram her before she could find a spot to beach. The race ended when a cohort of archers reached the shore and began shooting at the Samians, forcing them to retire.

  The Antigone had fled into the teeth of the wind. This, it turned out, was a wise choice: all of the ships were slowed somewhat, but the samaenas, with their wider profiles, were affected more. Before long it was clear that Poristes would break free. From a distance the banks of oarblades seemed to flash, dragonfly-like, as the white lines of a bow-wave formed, and his pursuers were left toiling in his wake. The trireme pulled away. The Samians on the city walls groaned; the Athenians on the beach gave a roar so thunderous that it was heard by goatherds on the foothills of Mount Mycale. The enemy oarsmen heard it too as they laid to, shipped their oars, and gave up the chase.

  Chapter VI

  TUNNELING TO GLORY

  “To look on self-wrought woes, when no other has had a hand in them — this lays sharp pangs to the soul.”

  — Tecmessa, Ajax, 1. 260

  *

  The Athenians could only stand by and see what the Ionians would do with control of the sea. Bringing in provisions would have to be their first goal; with the city water supply still secure and Pericles unwilling to sacrifice men in a frontal assault, the mere importation of enough food would all but win the war. Dexion left his tent every morning expecting to see a procession of grain ships heading out to sea. The return of just a few of them, a dozen perhaps, would make the town self-sufficient for more time than the Athenian army could afford to besiege it.

  And yet — unaccountably — he saw no such thing. Instead, in response to some imagined disloyalty, the Ionians sent out ships to punish their own outlying villages. Columns of smoke rose fro
m the north and west of the island; refugees flocked to Hera, herding slaves and livestock along the rut-roads to the Sanctuary.

  Menippus, sensing an opportunity, sent troops to help put out the fires. He then sent work parties to clear charred debris and collect building material for the villagers to rebuild their homes. The rural Samians, whose allegiance to their villages always seemed stronger than to the city, accepted this help warily at first — then wholeheartedly. As Ionian and Athenian worked shoulder to shoulder, sharing canteens and jokes, the mood in the back country shifted. Young girls were allowed out on the roads again. Thankful parents trusted the Athenians enough to let their children play in the vicinity of the soldiers. Nothing the Athenians could have done would have been more effective in winning over the villagers than the petty vindictiveness of the Ionians.

  This success helped restore the swagger of Menippus and the other generals. Yes, they granted, the Athenian army was cut off from home. But the Samian position was little better.

  “Do you think they’ll get grain from anyplace close by, with our fleet in the neighborhood?” asked Menippus at council. “Do you think the Chians or the Lesbians would risk it? Do you think they’ll get anywhere with the Milesians? No! They’ll have to go all the way to Byzantion, or to one of the ports of the Great King. Then they’ll have to get back here before Pericles. When it comes down to a race between the fleet and those merchant tubs, I’ll count on our boys every time!”

  Then Fortune turned and smiled on the Ionians. A few days after the battle, three Athenian supply ships appeared from the west on a routine supply run to the army. As their captains neared shore, they beheld a frantic bout of signaling from the island, warning them to turn around and run for their lives. The merchantmen shortened sail, baffled by all the smoke and flashing from the Athenian camp. By the time three samaenas came out to greet them it was too late. Over a short distance, no fully-laden roundbottom could outrun an oared warship.

  Dexion joined the mob of spectators watching the encounter from the top of Mount Ambelos. A sharp-eyed boy from the fleet was brought up to compensate for the tired eyes of the generals.

  Shading his eyes, the lookout narrated the dismal events. “One of the ships is running. He’s putting up every inch of cloth he’s got, including the crew’s underwear! The other two are dumping supplies over the side.” He paused. “They look like storage jars, not weapons. The Ionians are just about on them. One of them is making for the runner, and making up ground fast. Wait … Great Ares’ dick, the crews are shooting back! They’ve gotten out some bows from someplace. Oh, this is really too much, they’re not hitting anything. But the Ionians are slowing down … ”

  “The gods bless them,” said Glaucon, turning to heaven with palms raised. “They’re trying to make it hard on those bastards.”

  “Some of the jars are floating,” said Xenophon, squinting hard through the midday haze.

  “Yes, that’s true,” said the lookout. “The crews are trying to push them away, but the Ionians will pick them up.”

  “If they’re full of grain we’re finished,” groaned Cleistophon.

  “Calm yourself,” Xenophon warned. “You’ll frighten the youngsters.”

  “They don’t have to be full of grain to float. A jar of wine will float, too, if there’s enough air in it.”

  “And why would a wine jar have air in it?”

  “You must be a child,” replied Xenophon, “if you don’t know how wine jars get empty at sea!”

  “I’d hand over a jar myself, if you’d only shut up.”

  “They’ve rammed two of the ships now,” the lookout resumed. “Their men are coming across. The crew is still shooting at them.”

  “We ought to sign those men up for the service,” Dexion said to Glaucon.

  Glaucon leaned forward as if to make a tart reply, thought the better of it, and observed, “These could be ships owned by their captains. They’d rather die than take a total loss.”

  The struggle was soon over on two of the ships. The third, which got a short head start in its retreat, was fortunate that the wind turned around to the east: as its great square sail bellied out, its backstays straining, it receded faster into the mist as the samaenas increased their cadence to follow. The sail was soon a tiny patch, blued with distance. The oarbanks of the warships stroked the water one more time, then paused, cocked at an upward angle and glinting with wet. They were letting the merchantman escape.

  A cheer went up from the Athenian shieldmen on the hill. The hair’s-breadth escape of the last ship was a kind of victory, costing the Samians tons of additional food. It also guaranteed that no more supplies would be sent from Piraeus for the time being. It was only a minor piece of good news, however, in what could only be seen as a dismal week for the Athenians. Dexion, who over his career had developed a sharp ear for the subtler characteristics of applause, perceived a desultory quality in the cheer. This was an audience that wasn’t sure it would enjoy the drama’s final act.

  *

  Two days later Pericles returned. All sixty hulls of his fleet were behind him, surging from the west at combat speed, pennants flying from their mastheads. As they closed, Sophocles thought he recognized the shamelessly leering eyes of the Antigone, keeping pace beside the Olympian’s flagship. Poristes had succeeded in retrieving Pericles faster than anyone had anticipated.

  The Ionians had half a dozen samaenas in the Mycale straits when the fleet appeared. They at first turned their prows toward the mass of triremes, as if contemplating some desperate, glorious stand. But they soon thought the better of it, spinning on their keels to flee inside the breakwater. The spectacle put Xenophon in a contemptuous lather.

  “Cowards!” he spat. “I told you we should never have sent away so many ships. We practically invited them to disrespect us!”

  Menippus, having been proven wrong, kept his mouth shut.

  Pericles didn’t wait for his ship to beach but jumped into the surf. He came out with his red cloak soaked purple and clinging to his skinny legs, his helmet pushed back on his head as his eyes swept the beach. If Old Squidhead now believed he had erred in taking away so many ships, his expression didn’t betray it. Instead, he looked like a homeowner returning to discover his house was burgled while he was gone.

  To have been so careful in his generalship, yet to have to rush back to save his position — this was unprecedented for Pericles. Yet the Athenians saluted him genuinely as he strode past. Though he showed nor inspired much passion, his mere presence, with its confident physicality, still had a steadying effect. He approached Menippus with all his questions in his eyes, and the other scurried alongside trying to answer them.

  Pericles approached the Athenian lines, inspecting the kill zone where the Samians had been stopped. The ground there remained as broken and undulating as beach sand. Its color, though, had lightened with exposure to the sun — except for the places were blood had spilled and congealed into a grisly kind of slurry.

  “They made it all the way to here?” Pericles asked, a trace of incredulity in his voice.

  “More or less. A bit farther in some places.”

  The Olympian looked up and down the line. Then he pointed at the blackened husk of a Shieldbreaker.

  “Why has Artemon not fixed that?”

  “He has many others to put right,” replied Menippus.

  “Let him have all the men he needs for the job.”

  Pericles then seemed to bury his chin in his chest as he strode on. His eyes swept over Sophocles, but they showed no greeting or recognition as he passed.

  Poristes turned up soon after, looking exhausted after having spent the last two nights afloat. His eyes had that unfocused look of someone whose gaze had been glued to the horizon; his face had been so long exposed to sea spray a ribbon of dried salt ran from the corners of his eyes to his ears. The poet, smiling, hailed him.

  “By the gods man, you look a fright! So tell me — did you see anything of the Pho
enicians?”

  The captain just closed his eyes and shook his head.

  With Ionians bottled up again, the jam of Athenian supply ships on Ikaria was finally released. Two roundbottoms laden with dry provisions came first, followed by two more with additional weapons and shieldbreakers. The latter also brought a cedar box full of scrolls — letters from home, as well as reading material for soldiers with more elevated tastes in entertainment. Sophocles got in line to look through the inventory, half-hoping to see a play of his own included. Sure enough, he found an edition of the Antigone. He stepped aside, pretending to watch the small waves roll in, then checked the box again. His play was one of the first titles to be taken away.

  He was on his way back to his tent, feeling not a little pleased with himself, when the ship’s clerk shouted after him.

  “Dexion, stop! You have letters.”

  This announcement struck him so unexpectedly that he was at a loss to imagine who could have written. But of course it had to be Nais — and her news would have to be serious indeed for her to go to such trouble. He took the letters — two small scrolls each wrapped with a leather thong and sealed with wax — and went back to his tent, closing the flap after him.

  He unwrapped one at random. The date at the top was 7th Pyanepsion, and by the blockish, professional script he could tell that Nais — whose script was as poor as most Athenian females’ — had not drafted it. It read:

  Dear Father,

  I have come to the shop of Horus the paperseller to get this letter written. I have told the scribe to write it exactly the way I dictate it to him so if I put things wrong it is my fault not his (he wanted this made clear to you). I have bad news so I hope you are sitting down there. Please do.