Antigone's Wake Page 13

  Mother is sick. It started with a bad stomach so bad she couldn’t keep anything down, but worse than the usual for a pregnant woman because it went on all day. When this went on a long time I told her to call a doctor but she said she would not because of the money. After that she let me call Clitus the groom to have a look because he has been around many foaling horses. He looked at her and said, “I don’t know, but the cord be in the wrong place, you should see an Aesclepiad.” She thanked him and gave him a skin of wine for his trouble, but she never called the doctor. Since then I have cared for her and watched her closely, she is not getting any better.

  Father, I am scared. She brings up everything that goes down, including water, and this can’t be good for the baby. Will you write to tell mother that she should open her purse and not worry about the cost of a professional? Or else give us leave to close up the house and go to the temple to see what the Healer commands? I’ve already gone down to the water to find a ship to bring this letter — there are many ships going to Samos these days. The captain of the Oropus is leaving the day after the festival of Apollo if the auspices allow it. So if you reply we should have it within ten days or maybe within a week, in time to do her some good.

  I hope you are as well as you can be, so far away. Mother has told me how proud she is of your service to the city though she doesn’t want me to repeat it to you, she is as stubborn as a mule. Please give our love to Iophon and tell him we are proud of him too. Also, please don’t be mad this is such a long letter because I saved a few obols to buy this paper myself, I bet you didn’t think a girl could be so clever! Also, please write back right away before the ship starts back, so we hear your opinion the soonest.

  — Your loving daughter, Photia

  Sophocles fell back on his cot. Nais, pregnant? On physical grounds it was certainly possible — she was seventeen years his junior. Yet the opportunity puzzled him. Then he remembered the night he came home after spending the afternoon with Aspasia.

  He opened the other letter. It was dated two weeks earlier, on the 22nd Boedromion — it had been held up on one of the ships detained on Ikaria. The handwriting this time, and the letter’s brevity, were unmistakable.

  Husband,

  I had not intended to distract you by writing, but I know your vanity would demand you know the news.

  You will have a third child. It is too early to tell if it is a son.

  I curse you.

  — Your WIFE

  He folded and rewrapped the letters. Then he closed the tent flap and sat with his head in his hands. What had already been a puzzling situation now filled him with confusion. He would have laughed if a sudden chill had not come over him; the improbability of it all had the signs of a divine joke — or some hidden design. After all, there were no accidents in the world. So what could this news, and the order in which it was revealed, mean?

  It occurred to him that he had been given another son to square accounts for the ultimate sacrifice. Was that the purpose he sensed unfolding around him — to give his life to something other than the worship of Dionysus? What other influence than that of bright, heartless Athena could explain his quick thinking at Tragia, his ready sword during the Ionian sally? Or was it all orchestrated by the buries, to punish him for his presumption to rival the military legacy of Aeschylus? He liked to imagine the white-armed Virgin favored the work of Dexion, and weeping Demeter that of Euripides. But the Furies always liked Aeschylus.

  Yet the news of Nais’ pregnancy had met his eyes only after he had learned she was ill. The circumstances of this had to meaningful. He could have chosen either letter to read first, and had been led to Photia’s. This could portend the opposite choice, that he must take ship right away and see to his family’s welfare. Pericles could hardly begrudge him leave to go home: he had already contributed more to the cause than anyone could ask. His fate, therefore, would be bound up in his ability to see the wisdom of sacrificing further glory. Or at least that was how he might have written the tale.

  “Bulos!” he cried.

  No answer. He stuck his head out of the tent.

  “Bulos!”

  “Here, master,” the slave replied with a weary half-insolence. He was coming up the path with a water jug balanced on his shoulder.

  “What, only now getting water? What were you doing this morning?”

  “The spring was muddy then.”

  “I want you to take these letters to Iophon. He’s with Menippus’ staff. You will wait while he reads them, and then bring them back — and stop making that face!”

  The slave quashed a scowl.

  “It is sometimes hard to find the young master — for reasons that are not our fault.”

  “Yes, yes. It’s never your fault! Just do your best.”

  *

  Bulos returned two hours later with his head low, a look of consternation on his face. Sophocles, who was just finishing his reply to Nais, frowned.

  “You didn’t find him?”

  “I tried, master. No one knows where he is.”

  “Did you ask Menippus?”

  “He wouldn’t see me.”

  The poet shook his head as he re-read his letter. Bulos, anxious to visit the latrines, shifted on his feet.

  “Tell me what you think of this,” Dexion began. “Dear Nais, I am pleased to hear you are with child, but troubled that you see fit to endanger yourself and our son in your time of illness. Please stop being a fool and let Photia fetch the doctor. You may use the owls stashed in that place, the one we discussed, if you run short of coin. I expect to hear of your recovery in your next letter. You now know your husband’s will. Signed, so and so forth.”

  “A most forceful production, master,” replied the slave.

  “Don’t mock me,” Dexion said as he fixed the seal, then reused some of the leather from Photia’s letter to wrap his.

  “Now take this down to the sanctuary pull-out. It goes out on a ship called the Oropus.”

  *

  If there wasn’t already enough on his mind, the poet received a summons that evening to appear at council. As the generals had already met two days before, and nothing out of the ordinary seemed to be happening on the battlefield, the call surprised him. Was it about something he had done — or not done?

  They met this time in a grove far from the camp. As he approached, he noticed an extraordinary number of sentries had been posted to keep out eavesdroppers. This, clearly, was no routine gathering. As he took his place among his colleagues, he could feel the apprehension in the air. In any case, Dexion’s arrival barely registered on their faces. Whatever this was about, it wasn’t about him.

  For the first time, Menippus did not lead the discussion. Instead, Cleon of Scambonidas took the floor. Sophocles’ impression of this character was that he was trouble incarnate. Though he still a young man, and only the son of a tradesman, he already had the confidence to stand up in the Assembly and pander away with the best of the populists. Nothing about him, not the mulish stolidity of his face, nor the ambition he freely displayed, nor his overwrought podium style, accorded with the poet’s ideal of the public man.

  He did, at least, have the virtue of brevity when it suited him. When the preliminaries were done — the sacrifice of a piglet that, thought Sophocles, resembled no one more than Cleon himself — he made his case without preamble or circumlocution.

  “Gentlemen, I won’t waste your time this evening. We all know what happened in recent days that has brought matters to this sad pass. Certain decisions were made recently by the current leadership — demonstrably poor decisions with repercussions that nearly lost this war. I think you’ll agree that the Assembly did not send us here to give the Ionians second chances. The People fielded an army to accomplish one of two things: to force our enemies to submit, or to destroy them. I don’t think I’m alone in my determination that their will be done.

  “Lest it be thought otherwise, I take no pleasure in questioning anyone’s competence
. Show me some positive consequence of the options taken, and I will be the first to salute them. If the expedition in support of which so many of our ships were diverted had the result of destroying the Phoenician fleet, the cost might have been worth it. If the fleet had merely chased the Great King’s navy away, so it never again sets out to interfere in these waters, that too, would have been something. But I think we all know that none of these things were done. I think we can agree that nothing much was accomplished at all — except the near-destruction of the land army.

  “Nor should anyone mistake what is being proposed. No one here claims the martial excellence our brother Pericles presumes for himself as Supreme Commander. Instead of the hegemony of one man, we propose something that is much more in keeping with the character of the Athenians: an executive council of three, rotating on a regular basis among us, that shall be charged with all strategic and tactical decisions, pending review by the full council as opportunity permits.

  “In recognition of his many services I propose further that Pericles and his friends be as welcome to serve on the Council of Three as anyone else. I hope this, as well as the manner in which those most troubled by the disaster have chosen to raise their concerns, shall dispel any suspicion of malice, or the sort of political opportunism that is rightly despised by all good citizens. For however different our methods, we all have the same aim. We expect only victory.”

  Cleon then took his seat beside Xenophon — the one who had argued most against the division of the fleet. From the way they sat together, it was clear that Cleon had at least one ally in the council. Were there others lurking, not yet making their sympathies so obvious, but as ready as he to deal a crippling blow to Pericles’ career?

  As reluctant to speak as the Olympian was under normal circumstances, he was anxious to do so now. Jumping to his feet, he advanced as if leading the phalanx from the first rank. In his eyes Dexion saw a fire he never displayed arguing over construction contracts and trade policy in the Assembly.

  “My friends, I see there is nothing I can say to convince General Cleon to change his mind. Nor should I, for like any citizen, his wisdom is integral to the strength of our democracy. That we debate this question can only assure our victory — either by my removal as Supreme Commander, as he argues, or by the clarification of certain issues that will at last remove all doubt from our collective effort. It is for this reason that I not only agreed to this debate, I insisted upon it.

  “First, I must correct our colleague on one point. The decision that he decries, the one to divide the fleet in order to intercept the Phoenicians, was not made by Pericles. It was made by all of us, sitting together in council just as we are now. Contrary to what some may argue, this is always how business is done in our democracy. No one here is first among equals; no one may arrogate upon himself all the credit for our national policy.

  “Now I will not stand here and argue that the outcome was what we all had hoped. The intelligence that inspired our decision was actionable — of that there is no doubt. But we should also allow that the Great King, too, has his sources of information. Should we be surprised, then, at the barbarians’ inclination to turn and run when confronted with serious force?”

  This drew a chuckle from some of the generals. Cleon and Xenophon remained stonefaced, arms crossed.

  “Still, accountability is also an advantage of the Athenian system. The leader does not dictate strategy, but he should accept responsibility when it fails. Anything else amounts to the kind of despotism we can all agree is the end against which we fight. For that reason, and without any further defence, I hereby resign the position of Supreme Commander.”

  This was unexpected. A flash of panic came over Xenophon’s face, but Cleon smiled as if savoring some private joke. The rest looked around in confusion, their eyes imploring each other for guidance.

  Pericles continued, “I will make one final point, if I may. While we can only applaud our critic’s determination to improve the manner in which we make our military decisions, I believe it would be a serious mistake to replace one leader with a committee. For one thing, I have reservations such an arrangement would ever work. When has any ship benefited from having three captains? The only result, I fear, would be confusion, and the dilution of responsibility that would serve no one’s purpose.

  “But most importantly, such a measure is unnecessary. For it is the duty of this council itself to deliberate on how we make war — it is the oath we took, as well as our duty as citizens. Indeed, what need do we have for a council of Three when we have the Ten? As my last act, then, I therefore beg you to mind these objections, as well as to respect the arrangements handed down by our forefathers, and reject this proposal.”

  With that, Pericles sat down. Menippus rose to take the floor.

  “If there are no objections, we will hold the vote now.”

  “There are objections!” erupted Cleon.

  “I agree,” Xenophon added.

  Callisthenes, who had been silent until then, could take no more.

  “Why should we wait? Why should this situation lay unresolved for one hour, when the campaign is at stake?”

  “No explanation is necessary!”

  To which Callisthenes responded, “I see no reason for us to wait for Cleon to bend ears.”

  “It is clear,” interjected Menippus, “that there is some disagreement on this point. We will therefore vote to determine whether to hold the substantive vote now, or later. All those in favor of voting now, raise a hand.”

  Six hands went up, with Dexion’s joining them.

  “The proposal to vote carries. We will now vote on the proposal to replace the position of Supreme Commander with a so-called Council of Three. All in favor, raise a hand.”

  The count was seven to three against, with Pericles abstaining.

  “The proposal is defeated. Now that our colleague Pericles has resigned as Supreme Commander, we need to elect a new one. I nominate Pericles of Cholargus to be Supreme Commander.”

  “Agreed!” declared Callisthenes.

  “The proposal is placed before the council. All those in favor of Pericles’ nomination, raise a hand.”

  And so, all too abruptly, the decision was before him.

  Sophocles’ first impulse was to support the man who promoted his generalship. Yet how could he forget the cavalier manner in which the Olympian had dismissed his concerns about Artemon’s infernal engines? How could he overlook the way the war was cruelly extended, week after bloody week, all for the purpose of sparing casualties? The decision to divide the fleet was, in fact, driven by loss of discipline among men asked to wait too long for victory on a foreign shore. If Pericles was left in power, to what further depravities would this idleness, this cruel and unusual discretion, drive the glorious victors of Marathon and Salamis?

  Five hands went up in favor of Pericles: Socrates, Lampides, Glaucetes, Callisthenes, and Glaucon. The nominee did not vote for himself. The remaining five sat opposed — until Dexion looked at Pericles, and saw something in his eyes he didn’t expect: a plaintive flicker, a momentary shudder of abandonment, as he seemed on the verge of losing the poet’s support. It was a look of panic he had never seen on the Olympian’s face before — and it was pitiful.

  Dexion’s hand climbed by slow, painful degrees.

  The meeting closed, Callisthenes and the other loyalists surrounded Pericles to congratulate him. Dexion stood apart, still mystified by how easily sentiment had overridden his reason. And then Cleon confronted him, the man’s purple-ringed eyes peering into his.

  “That was a fine night’s work, scribbler,” he said. “Now this accursed siege will never end.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “From what I hear, at least your wife won’t stray,” replied the demagogue. “I hope the rest of us are so fortunate.”

  Pericles caught up with the poet moments later, in the woods just outside the camp. In the faint firelight, he found Sophocles han
d and grasped it like a man overboard being pulled to safety. Then, after giving him a kiss, he said just seven words.

  “Your loyalty will have its reward.”

  *

  Some time later two Athenian skirmishers were amusing themselves in the hills beyond Mount Ambelos. Both were the sons of humble thetes, just beyond their legal minority, too poor to afford a hoplite’s full panoply of armor. Instead, Timaeus came to Samos with a light shield and spear, and Cleanthes with just a wicker shield his father had fashioned out of the reeds near Marathon. But the latter believed his personal quality’ surpassed the crudeness of his equipment — and was determined to prove it to Timaeus.

  “Throw any rock, then,” said Cleanthes, “and I’ll throw a bigger one farther than you!”

  “You’ll regret that challenge,” replied the other.

  Timaeus stuck his spear in the ground by the butt-spike, and leaned his shield against a mulberry bush. Then he found a piece of limestone that he judged to be the ideal combination — bigger than his fist, but light enough to throw a good distance.

  “Stand aside,” he said.

  Cleanthes watched, smirking with derision, as Timaeus stepped back, swung his arms, and twisted his body discobolos-style. After a few practice swings he unsprung a decent throw, casting the rock into a stand of wild oleander.

  “Not bad. Now meet your better.”

  Cleanthes selected a missile twice as big as Timaeus’

  “Wait, let me see that,” demanded Timaeus. Lofting it in his hand, he shook his head. “This is bigger, but not much heavier.”

  “I never said bigger and heavier, fool!”

  “You implied it.”

  Cleanthes reared back and threw. His throw lacked the Olympic grace of his rival’s, but it went farther, over the bushes and onto the dirt beyond. Where the rock hit, it made an odd sound, as if the earth was hollow beneath.