they used opposite halves of the language.
“Before you go,” Demosthenes spoke up, “you should know something.”
Antalcidas paused.
“Be aware that your masters have been treating with our Assembly very hard for an end to the siege. So it seems that a few hundred dead Spartiates is a matter of some concern in Sparta. They want you back alive, not dead and covered in glory. Personally, I’m happy the negotiations have failed. I have not worked these months for you to walk free of here-I’d prefer to see you humbled, once and for all. But even if I care not a spit for you or the wishes of your elders, perhaps you should.”
Antalcidas regarded Demosthenes with something close to approval. “So it seems that some Athenians are capable of speaking plainly,” he said. “It is good to know. As for what you say-it is your ignorance to suppose that Spartan mothers do not care for their sons. And so, because you are a soldier, and have spoken honestly, I’ll make you an offer: allow us to send a messenger to our superiors ashore. If they order us to surrender our arms, I will not disobey them.”
Cleon was about to agree, but Demosthenes spoke first. “We have no objection. But we will deliver the message for you-none of you will leave this island.”
The truce persisted for several more hours as the Lacedaemonians consulted. As they waited, Antalcidas checked on Epitadas’ condition: with the arrow still lodged near his spine, he had lost a lot of blood, which in addition to his dehydration kept him sunk in semi-consciousness. If they didn’t soon find a way to remove the arrow safely, he would die. Then again, was that not the fate to which he was resigned for some time now?
Antalcidas did not think the ephors would give the Athenians the satisfaction of a speedy reply. He was therefore surprised when the Athenian ship soon returned with a message, shut with string and a wax seal with the mark of Zeuxippos. Unscrolling it, he found a single, uncoded line, unmistakably in his old mentor’s hand. It read: o???
A??????????????
The message pleased and puzzled him in equal measure. It was the first word he had heard of Andreia in months, and it was good. No Lacedaemonian could receive news that he had fathered a son and be displeased.
And yet-what did it mean? Were his superiors inviting him to return home, without prejudice, and raise his son? Or did they wish to imply that, with his legacy assured, he should see now to preserving the honor of his name?
The son of Antalcidas grows.
The Athenian generals watched as he stood there, reading the line again and again. Cleon immediately discerned the uncertainty on his adversary’s face. “Does the answer surprise you?” he asked.
Antalcidas ignored him. He had been too long away from Laconia-that Zeuxippos could expect anything else than the traditional sacrifice was unlikely. What proof did he have that Demosthenes was telling the truth, that the ephors had bargained hard for the garrison’s release? Nothing more than his word. And what was the word of an Athenian worth, when they dispensed so many of them, to such little effect?
He rolled up the message. “The answer is clear,” Antalcidas replied. “It is what we all expected. I bid you return to your men now, and ready your arms-for the Lacedaemonians choose to die.”
14.
The scroll was still in Antalcidas’ hand when he returned to the ruins. All the surviving Spartiates glanced down at it, as if curious over what it said, but too proud to ask outright.
Frog had no such trouble. “So what do our elders require of us?”
Antalcidas gave it to him. Reading the words, Frog grimaced.
“What does this mean?” he asked. “Is it some kind of code?”
“The men will prepare themselves for the attack.”
Pushing their helmets down low on their heads, the men settled down in their positions. Antalcidas saw that a few had used the reprieve to stack several small blocks at the back of the fort, making a small stretch of cover from the bowmen behind them. But this position offered no refuge from arrows shot from the other side.
Frog had not finished his interrogation. “Tell me, Antalcidas, why are you so sure they expect a sacrifice?”
“I’m not sure. When in doubt, the Spartiate will always make the most honorable choice.”
“There are many good men here,” the other persisted. “If there’s a chance to them to serve again in the line-we should be sure. You might petition the ephors to clarify.”
Antalcidas rounded on him, sneering, “Would that make your father proud? For us to prattle back and forth like women? No-I will not embarrass our elders by begging them to make our choice for us. If you must know, that is the duty of the command you wanted so desperately. Now leave me alone.”
Frog stared at him with eyes wide. Then he bent at the waist in a mocking bow.
“Well, then! Let us all hail our lord Antalcidas, third king of the Spartans!”
Before the other could straighten up again, Antalcidas shoved him to the ground. Looking back, Frog wore a face of such undiluted hatred that it might as well have been a theatrical mask.
“You’ve made a mistake, Antalcidas.”
Antalcidas reached for his sword. “And you’ve plagued your commanders for the last time. Get up.”
Frog rolled to his feet, his blade at the ready. Facing each other, a fight was inevitable, with Frog whipping himself up into an emotional froth and Antalcidas staring back, expressionless but with every intention of making the other suffer before he died. He had not fought another Lacedaemonian since that day on the Plane Stand, and never killed one. He found himself strangely attracted to the prospect: his love of country, which was unshakable, had somehow made him more contemptuous of certain Spartans than he knew. It was nothing so simple as resenting those of modest talent but legitimate birth. Instead, he felt a powerful need to purify and ennoble his love by removing irritants like Frog from the life of his city.
Suddenly the scream of wind through bowfeathers descended on them. Antalcidas looked up-and saw the sky again filled with Athenian arrows. He and Frog crouched together next to a wall as the volley hit the ground; neither of them was struck, but a handful of the other men were caught in the open without their shields.
“You men get your equipment!” Antalcidas cried. “Forward positions, prepare to receive the enemy-”
But the Athenians had changed tactics. The wounded Lacedaemonians were limping and crawling to where their shields lay, or injuring themselves further by ripping the arrowpoints from their flesh, when another volley came on. More went down as missiles tore through their flimsy piloi. Desperate, some of the Spartans darted out to strip a few of the heavier, closed helmets from the Athenian dead.
Demosthenes had decided to send no more human waves against the breaches: he would no longer gratify the Spartans by offering them the sort of death they preferred. The conference with Antalcidas, whom Demosthenes took to be a petulant fool, had relieved him of all chivalric scruples. He would now grind the Lacedaemonians down constantly, mercilessly, and from a distance.
Reading this fury, Cleon saw there was no longer any chance for live prisoners. Looking to sea, he visualized bringing a severed human head-perhaps Antalcidas’-to the Squeezing Place. No, the institution’s traditional decorum would never allow it. Yet would they not talk about that day forever, when Cleon brought such vivid evidence of his newfound military prowess?
“The archers are running out of arrows,” Leochares reported.
Cleon supposed that this was bad news. He looked to Demosthenes, who spared him only a glance before turning to Leochares.
“Tell the line officers that a ship is already on its way from the stockade,” he said. He then added-more to gall Cleon that to inform Leochares-“I called for resupply hours ago.”
