to the windward side of the island, the fresher air attracting him, when he discovered Epitadas standing on a ledge above the cliff. He had said nothing to him since the last confrontation with Frog.
Antalcidas knew that the Neckless One was right: the Athenians, when they came, would not risk a shock attack against elite Spartiates. Instead, they would land missile troops. Yet this, of all possible truths, was the one most awkward for him to broach; Epitadas would no doubt call him “Stone” again, saying he had spent too much time as a boy throwing rocks at helots. He could have no more luck with his brother than Frog had. Yet the voices of Andreia and Melitta were talking to him now, as the time in the siege grew late; their faces appeared to him nightly in his dreams. Could he deny them a mere word in defense of their future? If it was so destined, could he make his descent into Hades in good conscience, without even making the attempt?
Epitadas was looking out at the campfires of the Peloponnesians along the eastern limb of the bay. They seemed close, and far more numerous than the Athenian ones under Koryphasion. Yet in all those weeks they seemed as immovable as the stars. He was thinking, without resentment, that the men around those fires were painfully idle; he presumed that at least the hunting was good. There was a hint of roasting stag meat on the breeze. He had heard that Messenia, particularly around the deserted slopes of Mount Ithome, was still good country for red deer.
“Brother, Frog is a fool, but-” Antalcidas began. He let his words trail off, expecting that the other would interrupt him, but he did not. “Could it be so unwise to do as he suggests? Some of the shields were damaged in the fire.”
“I know that,” said Epitadas.
“We could designate two platoons of the under-thirties to be slingers, and give their shields to the Equals who have lost theirs.”
“I suppose we could.”
“Then… why…” Antalcidas shrugged, though his brother was facing away and could not see the gesture.
“The Athenians might try what Frog fears,” Epitadas said, “but it is not so easy. The ground will make it hard for them to land, and break up their formations.”
“Maybe.”
“We can be among them in time-remember their faces when we attacked them on the beach? They’re cowards-children. They will always run without a fight.”
“Which of us are you trying to convince, Brother?”
For the first time since he saw Epitadas kill that boy in the olive grove, his brother turned to him with eyes full of suspicion.
“Do I need to remind you, Stone, of your promise to our mother?”
“No, you don’t. But if you’re wrong?”
“It will be decided as the gods will. But if I’m wrong-if the fight is decided by arrows and rocks-then I say it is not a battle worth winning.”
3.
Cleon arrived in Pylos on the sixty-third day of the siege with a flotilla of ten ships and two hundred infantry. Demosthenes welcomed the ships and men, but could not fathom the Assembly’s choice of Cleon to replace Nicias. Yet there he was, striding up the beach in a spotless kit of parade armor, in a closed helmet mounted with horsehair brush, gold shield with repoussed Gorgon head, and fancy-tooled muscle cuirass. It was the panoply of a man who knew everything about shopping and nothing about fighting.
Perhaps equally as bad, he was followed by an entourage of other would-be warriors from the merchant trades-men he recognized from the Assembly as pottery magnates, fishmongers, moneylenders, and purveyors of high-class female entertainment. How impressive, those armored pimps, those joint chiefs of gash coming down the gangplank! Demosthenes watched them approach with his arm extended, a farcical smile carved on his face. Cleon took the hand and ignored the mockery.
Demosthenes conferred in his tent with his new commander. The general demanded water. His steward delivered a cup; sampling it, Cleon bowed his head and spat on the ground. “This is brackish!” he declared.
Demosthenes, pulling a face full of threadbare rue, explained that there were no sources of sweet water in the compound and deliveries from home were few. “Alas, it is what the People drink here,” he said. Cleon, regretting himself, looked into his cup and tasted again.
“On second thought, it is not exactly brackish,” he said. “Perhaps I meant to say it is hard-full of clay, I think.”
“Better clay than sewage. We’re short of space for those needs too.”
Cleon frowned. “Then it is good that we have been sent to put an end to all this.”
“That is also my hope.”
Cleon gave Demosthenes a long look. The latter, recognizing that he had strayed too close to the edge of insult, buried his misgivings and launched into a review of the tactical situation. Cleon seemed to relax as the details washed over him, not the least because he was pleased to have most of that information already.
“With the addition of the ships you have brought, we can expect to reduce the smuggling still further. The garrison should be quite weak then-weak enough to take by assault in a short time.”
“How much time?”
“Not long. Two weeks perhaps, or three.”
“We will attack in two days,” said Cleon.
Demosthenes stared at him.
“Perhaps… you did not hear me rightly. The Lacedaemonians are weakening, but we can make them weaker yet before risking an attack-”
“We will send a herald to enemy camp on the mainland tomorrow morning,” Cleon went on. “The longhairs shall have until sunset the same day to make their decision.”
“Knowing their numbers is not the same as knowing their disposition. There could be any number of traps on the heights we can’t see from the water.”
“Thereupon we will embark our forces at night and land them before first light on the second day.”
“A defeat might leave us undermanned against another attack on the stockade, notwithstanding our superiority on the water-”
“Your misgivings are noted, Demosthenes!” Cleon shouted, waving his right hand with oratorical flourish. “But I rule in accord with the will of the Assembly.”
In fact, storms had delayed Cleon on his trip around the Peloponnese-he needed to make up time if he was going to fulfill his promise to take the island in twenty days. If they could reduce the Lacedaemonians within the week there might be time to get word to Athens by mounted messenger, along his line of private contacts. It would be a shame to reveal this resource by bringing the news to town that way, but of course by then the issue would be decided and he would have won, so it would be a small sacrifice.
“I must urge you to consider again,” Demosthenes shook his head, “before our position here is ruined.”
“Demosthenes! Never let it be said that your efforts here have been unappreciated. What you have done here-Nicias, that dullard, would never have attempted it. You are the best we have-”
“I assure you that there’s plenty of time yet to make an attack before foul weather sets in.”
“-but if I need to pack you off for home, I will.”
The threat stopped Demosthenes’ tongue. Cleon continued, “Understand me, I would rather do this with you than without-but it will be done. Will I have your help?”
The Aetolians came down the slopes on both sides of the canyon, letting loose their half-barbarian cries. Most of his men crumpled instead of fought, too exhausted by their tramp through strange country to raise a sword in defense. When they were finished the little stream ran red with Attic blood. Their bones are still there, scattered and sorted by the spring flood into little piles, like with like-arms here, the tiny bones of the hands and feet there, swept farther down the creekbed-
The commanders were overheard to argue for quite some time, with neither willing to shift his position. The final word belonged to Cleon. The other got small revenge, though, when Cleon asked where he and his companions
