number of his comrades, Peers of Sparta and those Athenians who had been banished with him. A boys' equestrian competition was just finishing as I arrived; the companions, Alcibiades and Endius foremost, made a show of the awards presentation, to the delight of all. Sacrifice and feasting followed, at which no syllable of care was uttered. At last past midnight the party settled in Alcibiades' hermitage. I was summoned to the bench beside him.
“Tell me of Sicily,” he commanded.
The room was his office. Every surface sprawled with transcripts of Assembly proceedings, law-court records, and administrative warrants of Athens, Argos, Thebes, Corinth; the eye took in fleet documents, construction vouchers, Orders of Sail, court-martial transcripts, decoded skytalai, every species of military and political intelligence imaginable, while the floor-to-ceiling cubbies superabounded with the personal correspondence which, by a glance at its addressees, flowed to every city of Greece, the islands of the Aegean, Ionia, and mainland Asia.
“You have heard it all already.”
“Not from you.”
I told him. It took all night. Endius and the others drifted in and out, or curled in corners, snoring. Alcibiades did not stir. He listened with unwavering attention, interrupting only to command further exposition when I appeared ripe to move on, to his mind prematurely, from a topic or event.
He wanted to hear it all and hear the worst. A name arising, he pressed for particulars of the man's fate. No detail was too inconsequential. A joke the fellow had made, his woman, the way he died. Alcibiades cared nothing for topography or strategy. The contour of Epipolae, deployment of the fleet, these he passed over.
No emotion showed. Only his eyes altered during the sternest parts; they and the muscles beneath the jaw, which all soldiers have witnessed working involuntarily in a man under torture.
“Are you tired, Pommo? Shall we take up later?”
“No, let's finish it.”
“I'm bored to tears,” Endius broke in.
“Then go to bed.”
“How many times must we hear this?”
“Until I've heard it enough.”
Alcibiades made me recount instances of individual sacrifice or intrepidity, not only of Athenians but of allies and even slaves. At each his secretaries noted name, patronymic, and home district; I was queried again and again to be certain.
“Either stop pacing, Endius, or go to sleep!”
Near dawn I finished. Alcibiades had not budged all night.
“That's all of it,” I said, and rose.
I walked out to the paddock alone. The estate was just coming awake. I watched the grooms advancing to their chores, the ring being sprinkled and raked, riding mounts taken out to their exercise. I could feel Alcibiades emerge behind me, in shadow, yet turned neither to speak nor acknowledge his presence.
“I have never felt anyone,” he remarked, “hate me as you.”
“Don't flatter yourself. Many hate you more.”
He chuckled. “You came here to kill me. Why haven't you?”
“I don't know. Failure of nerve possibly.”
I turned back. I have never seen anything like the look that stood then upon his face.
He appeared as a man utterly alone beneath heaven. One who may confide in no one, not even the gods, least of all the gods. His own death, one could see, accounted nothing to him. Rather he was held, like an agonist in a trial, by that perverse genius which licensed him to perceive with a clarity beyond all others of his generation the dictates of necessity and which granted him in the service of this gift the powers of passion and persuasion to articulate its imperatives. Yet his own countrymen would not heed him to their weal, but only his enemies, and they, the more advantage they derived, hated him the more.
Every other captain of war held some rank or office, spoke or commanded in the name of some authority. Only Alcibiades stood alone, owning neither station nor commission nor even the garment on his back. Here he stood, stateless and accursed, outcast among his worst enemies, yet still he more than any, Spartan or Athenian, manipulated the course of the war by his will and enterprise alone.
Later among the pavilions of the Persian, I found myself seized on occasion by an unnameable panic. This was the discovery of myself at too distant a remove from all I knew. How might my benefactor have deflated such distress? What frontier could be more remote than that upon which he already stood? What greater crimes might he commit? How much more alone could he get? And yet he burned. Not, as his enemies professed, for wealth or glory.
Not even, I believe, for redemption. Rather he was locked in battle with fate or heaven, that ruinous genius which set at naught all his endeavors and brought to those to whom he wished only advantage destruction and evil.
“Will you ever absolve me for preserving your life, Pommo?”
My glance fell on the shoulder clasp which held his cloak. It was the wolfs tooth of Potidaea. I experienced that species of encounter called by the Spartans a “revenant,” when one feels that he relives an event, as it had happened before. “Why did you save me,” I heard my voice ask, “and not my brother?”
“Your brother would not have come.”
He uttered this absent malice, as an observation, plain and true.
“And why bring me here?”
“I needed one at my side who had passed through the same portal I had.”
This was the phrase, precisely, which his apparition had spoken in my fever dream. Did I inform him? Why?
“And what portal is that-to hell?”
He did not answer. Rather, with an expression at once rueful and ironic, reached to the fang clasp and detached it. It read: “For Valor.” He pinned it to my cloak.
“There is another reason I had you reprieved.”
The sky had lightened beyond Mount Parnon. Toward this he turned. I waited.
“When I am slain, I want it to be by one who truly hates me.”
He turned back, meeting my glance with absolute directness.
“Do you reckon how long we have been fighting this war, Pommo?
We were children when it began. Babes of that day are grown men now.”
He asked if I was sick of war.
“With all my heart.”
Across the fields one could see the helot groundsmen departing to work.
“Lysander will summon you soon. What he instructs, you must perform.”
“Why?”
“For my sake.”
I felt his hand upon my shoulder, sturdy as a friend's. “Don't condemn yourself so cruelly, Pommo. Sometimes it's harder to live than to die. Besides you had no choice. Heaven made you for this purpose, as me for mine.” He released my shoulder with a laugh.
“Haven't you learned yet, my friend? We are in this, you and I, to the bitter end.”
It was post noon of a brilliant day in the Spartan month of Karneius when Lysander sent for me. The city was decked for the Festival of Apollo; all training under arms had been suspended. I came to him beside the ball field they call the Islet. “You have served as a marine,” Lysander plunged in, skipping the small talk.
“You will serve again.”
“You mean not as assassin?”
“Don't play at smart-mouth, you whore's son. The casting vote mine, you'd be rotting in the quarries still. And don't give yourself airs to think your friend has sprung you out of affection. He'll make a run for it soon. That's why you're here; he thinks you'll stand by him.”
“Will I?”
“You look upon heaven at my pleasure only, and take no breath unlicensed by me.”
Lysander was not a physically powerful man. He stood only half a head taller than myself, possessed of
