from her moorings, cutting her off from the country around her, making the city seem no more than a vessel adrift, shorn of its oarbanks. To think that the rich used to scorn the simple Attic wines, the plain homegrown olives or figs that were now such sentimental luxuries! Under the circumstances, even the gods suffered: the loss of pilgrims from half of Greece made for empty seats in the theater during the Festival of Dionysus. Like many others, he could hardly remember how the Eleusinian Mysteries were conducted in peacetime, before the Lacedaemonians cut the way to the sanctuary. Instead, celebrants had to content themselves with an austere procession by sea, without the joy of the traditional roadside offerings and choruses. The unceasing obsession with security obliged the bodies of loved ones who died in summer-like his beloved Ianthe-to wander like shades in Hades. Instead of going to their rest, they were temporarily buried inside the walls, then exhumed and moved, half-corrupted, to the outside graveyards after the invaders were gone.
Despite himself, Demosthenes sat in his little command tent on the beach at Pylos and brooded over these things. He was encouraged now only by the possibility that the Lacedaemonians would understand that they must make terms to save their men on Sphacteria. He had seen some reason lately to believe they would send emissaries. First, although it was an exhausting task, the blockade was working-little more than the occasional swimmer was reaching the island. Quite a few of those had been picked up, lugging behind them such meager supplies as poppy seeds fixed in blocks of solid honey, or sacks of un-shelled nuts. Others were found facedown in the bay, drowned. His spies in Messenia told him that the Peloponnesians on the mainland would not even launch their ships. This had forced the Spartans to offer freedom to any helot who reached the island with a boat; some of these might even have slipped through the screen at night or in foul weather. A few fishing boats were seen wrecked on the shore after thunderstorms. But these never seemed numerous enough to amount to a serious problem.
Second, word had arrived from home that the army of King Agis was rushing to Pylos. News that the annual invasion of Attica was abandoned after only two weeks must have been received with jubilation in the city. What other evidence was necessary to prove that the Spartans were worried? The troops on the island, after all, represented one tenth of their entire citizen army. While fools who knew nothing of war took the Lacedaemonians to be indomitable, Demosthenes knew firsthand how reluctant they were to sacrifice their precious Spartiates. The possibility that the Athenians’ little stockade would become the nucleus of a new Messenian revolt must also have weighed on their enemies’ minds. He could only hope that these developments would strengthen the hand of the peace faction over the warmongers in the Assembly. By seizing this insignificant piece of Messenia, the Athenians stood to force concessions from the enemy that a dozen naval victories couldn’t achieve-if only they agreed to negotiate in good faith.
All uncertainty on this score was dispelled when Leochares brought him a letter from home. It was brought in by supply ship in the form of a short scroll. Demosthenes was about to break the seal when he looked up and saw Leochares was still standing there, his curiosity having overwhelmed his tact.
“I’ll tell you what it says, my friend,” the general said, “but for now let’s observe the formalities.”
Leochares blushed to his ears. “Yes, of course,” he said, backing out. Demosthenes watched him go. This man, one of the best officers he had ever served with, had learned that both his elder brothers had been killed in the fighting, one off Sicily, the other in the Chalcidike. Since then his face had taken on that ashen cast often seen among the Athenians in those days. He performed his duties well, of course-but it was competence rooted in obligation, in the fact that there was little else he could do.
Demosthenes broke the seal and scanned the first lines of the letter: To Demosthenes, son of Alcisthenes, citizen of the deme of Colonus Agoraeus, General-select of the?geides tribe, from his friend and colleague in the People’s service, Cleon, son of Cleaenetus, felicities and greetings. The People rejoice at the news of your recent victory over the Spartans in Messenia. Please understand that this comes as no surprise to your friends here in the Assembly, who have had nothing but the highest regard for your talents…
Even without the salutation Demosthenes would have known the author was Cleon. Only the demagogue would arrogate upon himself the right to speak for “the People.” The sole question in his mind was whether Cleon had the sophistication to draft his own letters: it was well known that he was the scion of a low-born family in the skinning trade. The fact that old Cleaenetus had made a lot of money as a tanner, and then discarded his former friends to consort exclusively with the nobles, only seemed to amplify his absurdity, like a manure carter who collected droppings from only the best homes. The son had at least charted his own course-Cleon was now a shit peddler of a different stripe, devoting his energy to flattering the scum and layabouts who dominated the Assembly. We have learned further that your forces have trapped a large number of Spartiates on a mountain [sic]. This achievement greatly pleases the People, for it affords the opportunity now to exact terms from the enemy that are right and proportionate to their injury. And while we have every confidence that it is not necessary to say so, we expect that you will not fall prey to misplaced compassion, but allow the assault to proceed apace, so that the Lacedaemonians will understand that time is not on their side. We therefore write to you now with the understanding that no unauthorized accommodations will be made before the People have had their chance to dictate terms. The Assembly expects that peace emissaries with plenary powers will arrive in Athens as this letter reaches you. And so your friends bid you continued good fortune in your campaigns, and that you will continue to prove ever a faithful servant of the public good, as those who await your return endeavor themselves, until victory crowns the efforts of all of us who keep the People’s trust…
Demosthenes threw the scroll across the tent. The People’s trustkeeper, it seemed, had decided to “dictate” terms that were “right and proportionate to their injury.” Would that “the People” have understood the true precariousness of their position! The wind-lashed ramparts of the island prevented a landing in force in all but a few easily guarded places. To attack with infantry, on ground covered with thickets, against an enemy who undoubtedly knew the field better than anyone, would risk having his troops scattered and annihilated. And while he could maintain the blockade for the present, his long supply line back to Piraeus would be cut with the arrival of the fall storms. By then the fleet would have to leave, whether the Sphacteria garrison had surrendered or not. These were facts even a tanner’s son should have been able to grasp.
The letter had unrolled flat in its flight across the tent. Retrieving it, Demosthenes saw it had a postscript: P.S. As we are most interested in assuring solidarity with our friend Demosthenes, we have instructed the courier to delay his return to await his answer to our message.
So much for the People’s confidence in him! Rolling up the scroll, he called for Leochares. The latter stuck in his head with scarcely a moment’s delay.
“Yes?”
“Tell the guards I’ll see the Spartan emissaries now. And tell the steward to bring a wine jug-the good Chian white, perhaps-and three cups.”
“Yes, sir!”
Back at his desk, Demosthenes searched for his stylus under the mountain of tablets and dispatches. As a third of his mind cursed his disorder, and a second third Cleon’s presumption, the remainder was busy composing his response: Greetings to Cleon, son of Cleaenetus, from Demosthenes of Colonus. Only now being in receipt of your most recent letter, I must first express my thanks for your confidence in my modest efforts in Messenia. As you must know, there is none among us who would rather see the Lacedaemonians defeated unconditionally. I must report, however, that the military situation here has already obligated me to conclude a truce with the enemy that is, of course, on the most favorable terms to Athens. If you will indulge me, I will explain the tactical problems that led me to believe that a cease-fire will be in our long-term interests…
7.
The next day the sea was too high for the Athenian ships to rest in the cleft. For three days after that Namertes was assigned elsewhere; since Antalcidas couldn’t budge the stone by himself, their attack would have to wait. It wasn’t until the fifth day, with the wind blowing from the east, under a sky filled with plump clouds in slowly drifting archipelagoes, that conditions seemed right for the attack.
He found Namertes in the same posture as before, peeping down on the Athenians. When the younger man heard him come up he greeted him in a loud voice, prompting Antalcidas to silence him abruptly. There was no way to know how much the enemy could hear from below.
