attending upon our father's brothers and the gentlewomen of the clan. Enemy incursion had cut off access to the country, to our family tomb. We must inhume Father's and Meri's bones beside my own wife's and infant's, beneath the stones of our city house. As I voiced the terminal invocation,
May the earth rest lightly upon you, my soul was animated by one object only: to see the remains of these I loved interred on the land, where they belonged and would find peace. That meant returning to war, to drive out the foe. I would find a vessel or infantry company and ship out.
Waking alone several days later, I determined to empty the house and commenced before dawn to set her contents at the curb.
Before I had stacked three items a crowd had collected. I began to laugh. “Just leave me armor and something to cook with.” The place was picked clean in five minutes. Believe it or not, the mob respected my wishes. I found my wife's kitchen intact, and my military gear. They left my bedding as well.
A day later, or perhaps that same forenoon, I was approached by a gentleman of our country district, a friend of my father's. He looked bad. We spoke of happier seasons, of childhood games played with his sons and daughters upon the land. Would I, in remembrance of these bonds, perform now a service for him?
“It's my wife,” he said, and spoke no more.
Moments passed before I realized what he wanted. I was appalled and fled.
Two nights later this countryman returned. “My wife delivered you, Pommo. By the gods, I beg you now: deliver her.”
There are frontiers one crosses, my friend, without understanding of what he does. This was not one of them. With gravity I acceded and performed the service this man requested.
Within days two more such assignments were set before me. I performed them as well. Why not?
The good alone die young.
I continued to apply for service with the fleet, but must have looked so bad the officers took me for sick. I could not find a berth.
More haunted figures, strangers as well as acquaintances, presented themselves, requesting my abetments of mercy. I began to get good at it. It was like being a doctor, I told myself. Like my father, I delivered the afflicted from their torment. In fact my physic was superior; my cures took. No client complained. And business kept getting better.
Another night a different rap came at the post. It was Euryptolemus, on horseback. When I stepped out I saw, also mounted, in the shadows, Alcibiades.
“Don't worry,” I told him before he could speak. “I have said nothing about your ritual observances.”
“Do you think that's why I came?”
“I have no idea why you do anything.”
In that moment I hated him.
“And you, my friend,” he queried, perceiving. “Are you yourself so free from sin?”
“It seems sin has become less handy of definition.”
“Indeed.”
Euro led a third mount. “We're going to the harbor. Come on, take a ride.”
We proceeded at a walk through the silent lanes.
“Pericles' spit has gone dry,” Alcibiades announced in the affectless tone of the bereaved. So the scourge had found even the Olympian. “He will stand with Theseus, Solon, and Themistocles among those who have shaped our nation, and none shall surpass him.”
He spoke no more, nor did his cousin, all the way to Munychia.
The naval base, when we reached there, churned with a cacophony of ships' chandlers, expeditors, and stevedores hastening to beat the tide, which was due, one of their number informed us, an hour before dawn. A fleet under Phormio was rigging out for Naupactus.
The troop transports lay along the embarkation quays, while the triple-bankers, the men-of-war, waited like great stingered hornets, sixty in all, hull by hull in their torchlit sheds, each obscured beneath a swarming mantle of ship's joiners and riggers, sailbenders, cordwainers, and sparhandlers. Petty officers bawled orders amid a din of shoring jacks and carpenter's mawls, windlasses, winches, and cranes. The slipside catwalks, themselves a maze of hawsers and mooring cables, stem and stern stays, warp lines and every form of brace, sheet, shroud, lift, hoist, and ratline imaginable, seethed with battalions of administrators, admiralty clerks and supply secretaries, registrars of the katalogos, Council members, priests, merchants and recorders, curators of the neorion, the shipworks across whose teeming timbers now advanced the nautai themselves, packing their seabags and oars and scrambling in orchestrated chaos to “sign in, sign off, and sign over” in time to beat the apostoleis' trumpet. Stacked arms lined the quays beneath the unit guidons, with the infantrymen and their attendants crapped out in the blaze of cressets and their own spit fires, oiling their bronze against the salt and securing their shields within fleece coverts.
At the foot of the pier Alcibiades spoke apart with Phormio and several of his captains, while Euryptolemus and I mounted the limestone steps carved with sailors' graffiti, lewd drawings, and the ubiquitous footstep-and- pussy ikon indicating the route to the nearest house of ill fame, to that open-air tavern called Ouros, Fair Wind, which overlooks the embarkation quays. Euro asked if I had ever seen a lodestone of Magnesia, a magnet; how it attracts irresistibly the filings of iron. He meant his cousin.
Below on the dock we could see the stir Alcibiades created simply by his presence, how the infantrymen maneuvered as they had in camp at Potidaea only for a glimpse of him. Many seemed to address him as they passed; we could hear several, urging him to speak out more boldly, don't let youth hold him back, seek command and seize it. The main of the soldiers were young, our age. They had grown impatient with the dilation of their elders.
“Lead us, son of Cleinias!” more than one cried with a raised fist and a gesture of affirmation.
In the mariners' tavern where his cousin and I waited, anticipation of Alcibiades' arrival had electrified the colony.
Serving girls and laundresses of the abutting lanes scurried up, pinching the flush into their cheeks and dressing their hair with their dirty fingers. Do you know that dive, Jason? It serves grub as well as wine. The proprietor is a Phoenician of Tyre; he decks his place with maritime kit and affects to give seafaring names to the plates of the day, which he now, as Alcibiades entered, rattled off to his guest while escorting him to table. Might he recommend the “Top o' the Catch”? Perhaps the “Smack 0' the Sea”?
“I'll have that one.” Alcibiades indicated a stewpot on the flame.
“The Twinge o' Nausea.”
He grinned at the host; a tiara from the king of Persia could not have delighted the fellow more. Alcibiades' mood was grave, however. You could see he burned with envy of Phormio, impatient for a fleet of his own. The celebrity of his person chafed upon him; he felt the spell he produced on the masses and blazed to use it. Why had he asked his cousin and me to accompany him here? “Our friend Socrates excepted, you two alone possess the spirit to call me a hound to my face. Tell me now and don't lie: how, and where, may I make my move?”
Pericles' passing must create a vacuum, Alcibiades declared, which would stand the empire on its head. Subject states will revolt, would-be successors scurry from the woodwork.
Euryptolemus cut him off, indignant. How could Alcibiades speak so coldly of his kinsman, who if the gods grant may live on another half year, or even survive as no inconsiderable number had already?
“He won't make it,” Alcibiades pronounced. “I read it all over him. Nor am I cold, cousin, but only forethoughtful, as he was and would wish us to be. Whom do we want in his place-that truckler to the rabble, Cleon? Androcles, who couldn't mount from the gutter with a stepladder? Or Nicias, whose pious vacillation is even more malign? Listen to me. If Athens possessed leaders of imagination, I would be the first to set myself at their service. But the worst are bullies and lickspittles, skilled only at manipulating the mob. The best, as Phormio and Demosthenes, are warriors; they will not soil their hands with politics. What dies with Pericles is vision. But even he has not seen far enough. The Plague will end, we will survive it. What then?
“Pericles ordained as indefeasible three tenets for the prosecution of this war: the preeminence of the fleet, the security of the Long Walls, and the proscription of the empire's expansion while the war goes on. The first two stand sound; the third must be repealed. We have no choice but to expand, and with unprecedented vigor. Our ships must carry conquest to Sicily and Italy, then Carthage and all of North Africa. In Asia we must not content ourselves with a toehold on the coast, but advance inland and take on all comers, including the throne of Persia.”
