Antigone's Wake Read online

  To Hellenes with an ear for nautical Phoenician, the name of the high-peaked island sounded something like “lofty.” Through the ages the place had also been known as Parthenia, Imbrasia, Anthemis, Dryousa, Doryssa, Phyllas, and Melamphylos. It was said that its first inhabitants were the Pelasgians who arrived before the age of metals. They came to mine the green clay that was peculiar to the place and held to be unmatched as a salve for wounds and a bleaching agent in the production of fine wool. Phoenicians, Leleges, Carians, and Achaeans followed, finding the valleys and slopes of Samos hospitable to the olive and the grape. Golden-shod Hera was born on Samos, on the banks of the river Imbrasos, in the shade of the purple-blossomed chaste tree. The goddess herself had since decamped for other quarters, but the Ionian Greeks honored her birthplace by erecting the temple that, by Dexion’s time, was unmatched in its splendor.

  Local bards sang of Ageos, the island’s first king and a shipmate of Jason on the Argo. They never sang of Polycrates son of Aeaces, the tyrant of a century before who truly put Samos on the map. This was curious, for Polycrates was in many ways the most remarkable Greek of his time — an educated man, a patron of artists and poets, a redoubtable general, and a tireless builder. Polycrates’ era began when he and his brothers Pantagnotus and Syloson, along with a gang of sympathetic merchants, took control of Samos Town when the rest of the people were out of the city. When the Samians returned from worship at Hera’s sanctuary they faced a fait accompli — yet another in a long line of tyrants in possession of their city. They resigned themselves to the brothers’ rule.

  Polycrates soon found a pretext to eliminate Pantagnotus and drive Syloson into exile. For the next twenty years the tyrant went from triumph to triumph. Building on his island’s wealth, he built a navy of one hundred blunt-nosed penteconters — the ancestors of big, modern samaenas — and swept the Aegean of all rivals. He conquered Rhodes, humbled Lesbos and Miletus. He made an alliance of equals with Pharoah Amasis, making Egypt dependent on Samos for her naval power. He took control of Rhenea, the small island adjoining sacred Delos, and made a spectacle of giving it to Apollo by stretching a chain across the strait to the god’s sanctuary. From the Ionian coast to the Greek mainland, Samos was mistress of the sea, where not even the pirates dared to operate without Polycrates’ leave.

  At home, the tyrant undertook a building program that dwarfed anything that preceded it. On Samos Town he bestowed a new circuit of high walls, spanning nearly forty stades, that made it almost invulnerable from the land. Her harbor was protected from the sea by a stupendous breakwater, the biggest yet seen, that rose one hundred feet from the sea floor and stretched more than two stades in length. The temple of Hera was renovated and enlarged, its massive roof raised atop more than a hundred columns each sixty feet tall.

  Polycrates then turned to securing the capital’s water supply against siege. Under the direction of Eupalinus the Megarian, his engineers dug a tunnel that stretched more than six stades from the springs of Agiades to a place inside the walls. How Kupalinus contrived to start the construction at both ends and have his workers meet in the center, deep in the limestone heart of Mount Ambelos, was vaguely understood to involve abstruse mathematics — which is to say, some kind of sorcery. In any case, Samos Town got its aqueduct, and Polycrates the glory of commissioning a wonder comparable to the monuments of old Egypt.

  Having decorated the landscape with his works, Polycrates set about adorning his drinking couches. From Ionia and Italy came the lyric poets Ibycus and Anacreon, from Crotona the physician Democedes, from Megara the architect Kupalinus, from Samos itself the mathematician Pythagoras. Long before the floruit of Athenian genius, Polycrates the Samian hosted the most sophisticated table-talk in Greece. His example was not lost on later leaders like Pericles.

  Polycrates’ success soon began to attract other, less admiring sorts of attention. Pharoah Amasis, who was jealous of his good fortune, devised an ingenious scheme to rob Polycrates of his happiness. Under the pretence of friendship, he wrote a letter to the tyrant extolling his achievements, and expressing only hope that his reign continue to be blessed. However, Pharaoh argued that to perpetuate his good fortune he should anticipate the bad that would come. “It is not given for any man to enjoy nothing but endless prosperity,” he advised. “I therefore beg you to protect yourself, dear friend, by taking it upon yourself to throw away whatever you value most. Indeed, you must not just throw it away, but put this thing forever beyond the reach of anyone. Only in that way can you forestall the Fates, who must otherwise deal you a reverse.”

  As Polycrates was a tyrant, and tyrants survive by anticipating challenges, he found Pharaoh’s reasoning sound. But what to give up? Briefly, he considered having his infant daughter thrown from the high walls. Upon reflection, though, he had to concede that the girl was far from what he valued most. Should he raze the Temple of Hera, which of all his works he was most proud? He thought not, for it made no sense to appease the Fates by angering the goddess.

  At last his plans settled on a particular signet ring — one of pure gold set with Scythian emerald — that he had worn since the day he had seized power. Being a superstitious man, Polycrates became anxious at the very thought of removing the ring from his person. Yet was this anxiety driven by nothing other than fear of losing his position — a disaster sacrifice of the ring might forever preclude? Amasis’ letter convinced him this was so. With the same ruthlessness that had enabled him to kill one brother and exile the other, he strode out on the breakwater he had built, tore the ring from his finger, and threw it into the sea. He then withdrew to his palace to await what the Fates had in store for him.

  When the rafters holding up his roof didn’t collapse on him, and his island was not swallowed up by the sea, Polycrates began to recover his confidence. Nothing happened that made him suffer the least bit of trouble; the Samians, if anything, seemed to love him even more for his sacrifice. “So this was the hidden wisdom of Amasis’ advice,” he thought. “Because of what I have done, the people love me, and so will not plot against me.” After a few days he became absorbed in the usual business of state. After a week, he forgot all about the ring.

  Having been installed with the help of the wealthy merchants, Polycrates particularly valued the devotion of the humble people. He was therefore pleased when a fisherman came one day to his door with a gift — a swordfish so large it took three men to carry it into Polycrates’ presence. Placing it on the floor broadside to the tyrant — showing it to be more than ten feet long — the fisherman bowed, kissed Polycrates’ ringless finger, and said “I caught this marvel this morning off Mycale. And even as it was dying by my feet, I knew I could not sell such a prodigy in the market, but must give it to my king, for it is the only fish I have seen worthy of him.”

  Happy Polycrates replied, “Of the fish it may be as you say. But it is more important to me to have worthy subjects than worthy fish. Therefore rise, good fellow, and join me at table!” As tyrant and subject set about sharing a meal, the cooks opened the fish’s belly and made an astonishing discovery: there, perfect and whole as the day he cast it away, was Polycrates’ signet ring. When the servants restored it to him, and explained the circumstances of its return, Polycrates wept with joy, his prior attachment to the ring now rekindled in his mind. “Now I am sure I am most favored by the gods!” he declared. For it seemed to him that even his efforts to deprive himself met with nothing but profit. And he called his scribe to write a letter to Amasis to share his good news.

  Pharoah read the letter with a great deal of fear. “The gods must be preparing this Polycrates for some especially grim end!” he exclaimed. Not wishing to share the Samian’s doom, Amasis sent a formal embassy to Polycrates to break their alliance. Yet so assured was Polycrates in his continued prosperity, the abrogation of the treaty caused him not a moment’s concern. “If my friend thinks it best to go his own way, I will not deny him,” he said, and turned his attention to the plans, presented
by Hupalinus, to carve a giant image of the tyrant’s face into Mount Ambelos.

  *

  Pericles had the Athenians land at two locations on Samos.

  Hoping to overawe the enemy, he ordered half his fleet ashore southeast of the capital, a few stades from Hera’s sanctuary, and the other half at a beach to the west, just off the Asian straits. The men were then quick-marched to the town from two directions.

  The morning was perfect for Pericles’ show, with the sky an untrammeled blue, and onshore breezes to cool his men as they strode the land in their polished armor, shining in the sun like enameled figurines. The Samians, however, seemed underwhelmed: no alarm was sounded as the hoplites appeared, and no one was sent out to oppose them. Instead, the Athenians were faced with a locked gate, high walls, and guards staring back with withering disdain.

  “This had to be expected,” Poristes told Dexion. His squadron had landed at the western beach, and general and captain walked together to the town in ruts the troops had left in the strand. “Polycrates didn’t give them that wall and aqueduct for nothing.”

  Dexion made no answer but watched the rest of the Athenians — the corps of oarsmen, almost eight thousand strong — as they trudged in from the beaches. Most were making for the siege camp the surveyors were laying out inland, just out of bowshot from the Samian walls.

  From the sea, all approaches were blocked by the great mole. The blue-gray ring of Polycrates’ fortifications protected the town on its three landward sides, including the southern flank of Mount Ambelos. The walls were forty feet tall and in excellent repair. The spectacle depressed Sophocles. He had somehow hoped the Samians would make the gloomy denouement of a siege unnecessary. After his tactical masterstroke at Tragia he expected some god to be winched down to make a sudden, orderly end to the tragedy. Was there anything worse than a play that wore out its welcome?

  The next day messengers were sent to the enemy to offer terms. They were lenient: in exchange for surrender, the Samians were required to expel the oligarchs, restore the democracy, release their Athenian prisoners, and raze their walls. Having fulfilled these conditions, they would continue to serve as full and independent members of the Aegean League.

  The Samian commander took the embassy inside, listened patiently to its offer, and sent it back with an insolent reply: Samos would only excuse the invaders from their land if the Athenians returned all prisoners, paid restitution for damage done to Samian ships and farms, and dedicated an apology at the Sanctuary of Hera. This commander, who was called Callinus, reportedly cut a modest figure — bald-headed with skin broiled brown like a slave, clad in a simple tunic and commoner’s sword hanging from a baldric.

  “Does he fancy himself a philosopher?” scoffed Menippus.

  “I believe he does,” replied the messenger, dead serious.

  A council of generals was convened that evening. This time Dexion’s colleagues competed to offer their seats to him; the hero, fearing a reputation for hubris, declined and sat on a stool some distance away.

  Once again Menippus led the discussion, with Pericles standing behind and to the side, with Dorus and the other servants. The atmosphere was different from the meeting on Keos: there was no swagger in Menippus’ manner this time, nor any whooping or carousing by the generals. The surprise attack at Tragia, and the Samians’ determination to force a siege, had tempered them all.

  “The following of you will each be responsible for a part of the wall — Lampides and Glaucon, the western side; Xenophon and Cleon, the east; Androcides, Socrates, and Dexion, the longer stretch to the north.”

  And as simply as that, Sophocles found himself counted among the ‘real’ generals of the campaign. It was not unlike the time when he learned he stood second only to Aeschylus in the pantheon of Athenian dramatists. No one ever informed him when he attained this honor, or asked him whether he thought he deserved it. It was just a universal fact that came from nowhere, as natural as the sea was salt. Such honors made him nervous.

  Menippus went on, “Cleisthenes has special responsibility for the fortress at the northwest corner, on the mountain. Glaucon’s squadron will patrol the sea beyond the breakwater.”

  “And the rest?” asked Xenophon.

  “There is still the matter of the Phoenicians. When Callisthenes returns with his four hulls, we will send a larger fleet to stop them.”

  Silence. Uncertainty over the wisdom of further splitting the army hung in the air like smoke from a guttering lamp. Pericles, sensing the mood, intervened.

  “We should have more than enough forces left to cover the siege lines. When the enemy understands that nothing will enter or leave the city, and that no one will relieve them, they will surrender. A favorable end is inevitable as long as we stick to the plan.”

  Whether out of the confidence he had earned or a sudden fit of madness, Dexion could not restrain an urge to speak up.

  “With that famous aqueduct, they won’t suffer for water.”

  Pericles, who took pride in never being surprised, looked to Menippus. The latter stared at Sophocles like a somewhat frustrated tutor.

  “I will take care of that myself. They’ve hidden the end of the tunnel well, but we’ll find it. Have we forgotten anything else, Dexion?”

  There was a chuckle from the back of the group.

  Sophocles, annoyed, persisted. “The Ionians knew we were coming, so they must have laid in stores to wait us out. And have we ever faced walls like these? Spears and bare hands won’t be of much use against them. If we can’t breach the walls, how will we ever force the issue?”

  Pericles was already on his way to his tent. Menippus, who was folding the cover over his tablet, made no other answer but to say, “Proceed to your positions.”

  By the next day the Athenians had erected a ring of strong-points around the perimeter of the city, joined by a rude causeway by which reinforcements could be rushed to wherever they were needed. In preparation for the attack, the Samians had stripped away every tree and stone big enough to provide cover, everything bigger than a sprig of grass, within a hundred yards of the wall. When the Athenians strayed within range, the Samians shot arrows at them. This gave the besiegers an excellent idea of the effective range of their archers.

  Dexion’s zone was at the northeast corner; from his day-tent he could see the Polycratic walls march north from the blue floor of the Aegean, make a ninety-degree turn to the west, and mount the slope of Ambelos toward the fortress on its crown. The Athenian strongpoints were mirrored by a series of towers built into the walls, a bow-shot apart, topped with guardhouses. To Dexion the entire setting seemed like some fruitless dispute hewn in stone, with each Athenian thesis confronted, point for point, by its Ionian rejoinder. As he knew from years spent hearing such arguments in the marketplace, no side ever truly convinced the other.

  At midday he beheld a strange sight coming up the road from the shore. A red-haired man, well-dressed in a clean tunic and shoes but otherwise clearly a slave, was pushing a cart up the slope. Inside the cart was another man clothed not nearly so well — more or less in plain sackcloth — with black and gray-flecked hair and beard rampant as if never cut in his life. Even his eyebrows were exuberant, hanging down a finger’s width below his eyes. But strangest of all was the fact that he was but half a man — in the cart there was nothing below his torso but a blanket to cushion his limbless form.

  “Stop,” the cripple commanded the slave. He was staring at Dexion through his personal thicket, evaluating him beneath a hard, steady glare.

  “You are Sophocles son of Sophilos, the poet?” he asked, in a tone verging on the accusatory.

  Dexion shifted. “I am.”

  “Artemon, son of Aristeus,” replied the other. “You will read my poems sometime, yes?”

  To such an unexpected request Dexion hardly knew what to say. Poristes saved him by interjecting, “Can that be your job in this campaign, sir? To produce verses?”

  Artemon scowled and t
urned his appraising eye to the ground held by Dexion’s forces. With a quick glance at the walls opposite, a quick mental calculation of distances and angles, he barked at his slave:

  “Mark this place as suitable.” Then, to Dexion, he said, “I will be back.”

  When he had been rolled to the next strongpoint, out of earshot, Sophocles turned to Poristes.

  “Suitable?”

  “He must mean a gastraphetes — a shieldbreaker.”

  Dexion had never heard of such a thing. But as the sun settled into the crook of Ambelos he saw a crew of workmen approach, leading a tethered ox. Behind them was a wagon laden with strangely-shaped wooden objects — a great oaken pedestal; a winch like the ones used to beach the ships; a bow the length of a man, its surface clad in opalescent animal horn. When they reached the spot Artemon had designated they dumped the components and retreated back to the shore. Assembling the shieldbreaker, it appeared, required yet another crew of specialists.

  The commotion attracted the attention of Iophon, who had otherwise avoided his father’s presence.

  “By the gods, is this one of Artemon’s engines?” the boy gushed.

  “Yes.”

  “Did you meet him?”

  “What there was of him.”

  “What there was of him? Artemon of Gela is the most famous man in the world! Didn’t you recognize his face?”

  “Should I have?” Sophocles retorted.

  The other shook his head sadly. “Father, there’s been a picture of him in the Painted Stoa for the last ten years. He is a hero of the wars in Sicily. Don’t you know anything?”

  “No, I suppose I know nothing.”

  “He was wounded in a battle against the Carthaginians. One of his machines broke as it was sprung — three other men were killed, and he lost both legs. But Artemon was so coolheaded he supervised his own amputation, right there on the field. He refused to give up, and the Greeks won the battle. Is there anyone who has not heard this story?”