The Last of the Wine (3 page)

The distance was dim as mist; yet I saw the ships, for all their lights were burning. Those at moorings had lit them for the watchmen, and those at anchor for safety, so many they were. You might have thought that Poseidon had won his old contest with Athene, and set the City upon the sea. I began to count them: those clustered about Piraeus, those on the curved shore of Phaleron, those out at anchor in the bay; but I soon lost count.

I had never sailed further than to Delos, where I had gone with a boys’ chorus to dance for Apollo. I felt full of envy for the men of the Army, going out to drain the cup of glory and leave none for me. So must my great-grandfather have seen the fleet gather at Salamis, where the bronze beak of his trireme swooped like Zeus’ eagle on the ships of the long-haired Medes.

There was a change in the sky; I turned and saw dawn smoulder behind Hymettos. The lights went out one after another, and the ships themselves appeared, sitting the water like grey birds. When the spearhead of Athene flashed a spark of fire, I knew I must go or be late for school. The painting on the statues and friezes was brightening, and there was warmth in the marble. It was as if order had that moment been sung up out of chaos and night. I felt my heart lift within me. Seeing the ships so thick on the waters, I had said to myself that these had made us what we were, the leaders of all the Hellenes. Now I paused, and looking about me, thought, “No, not so; but we alone have given godlike things to the gods.”

Now dawn unfolded a wing of flame, but Helios was still beneath the sea. All things looked light and incorporeal and the world was still. I thought I would pray before going, but did not know which altar to turn to; for the gods seemed everywhere, all saying the same word to me, as if they had been not twelve but one. I felt I had seen a mystery, yet knew not what. I was happy. Wishing to praise all gods alike, I stood where I was and lifted my hands to the sky.

Going down the steps I came to myself and knew I should be late. I ran for all I was worth to the market, and spending my father’s money quickly, bought violets made up already into garlands, and some stephanotis; the woman gave me a rush basket for nothing. At another stall they had dark-blue hyacinths, for which I had kept something by. A man who was there choosing myrtle smiled at me and said, “You should have bought those first, Hyakinthos.” But I raised my eyebrows and went on without speaking.

The market was crowded and people were full of talk. I am as glad as anyone to hear of something new; but I could see the man with the myrtle beginning to follow me, and besides, I did not want my father’s temper to give out. So I hurried as fast as I could without breaking the flowers, and, thus concerned, scarcely looked right or left till I reached home.

I had bought a myrtle-wreath for our guardian Herm, to dress him for the feast. He was a very old Herm, who had stood at the gate even before the invasion of the Medes; he had the face of the oldest images, with a closed smiling mouth like a new moon, a traveller’s hat on his head, and a beard. Yet having known him from my infancy I had a fondness for him, and thought no worse of him for his rustic looks. I walked, then, towards him, searching in my basket for the garland, and looked up with it in my hand. The clear sun of morning shone full upon him. I started back in fear, and made the sign against evil.

Someone had come in the night and hammered his face to pieces. His beard and his nose were gone, and the brim of his hat, and the phallus on the column; half his mouth was knocked away, so that he looked eaten with leprosy. Only his blue-painted eyes were left, staring out fiercely as if they wanted to speak. Chips were scattered everywhere; it must have been on one of them that, as I set out in the dark, I had hurt my foot.

In my first horror I thought the god himself must have done it, to curse our house for some frightful sin. But it seemed to me that a god would have split the image in two with one stroke of thunder; this was the work of men doing as much as they could. Then I remembered the dogs barking in the night.

I found my father dressed, going over some account-rolls. He began to rebuke me, for the sun was up; but when he heard my news he ran outside. First he made the evil-eye sign; then he was silent some time. At last he said, “The house will have to be purified. A madman must have done it.”

Just then we heard voices approaching. Our neighbour Phalinos, with his steward and two or three passers-by, all speaking at once, poured out the news that every Herm in the street had been profaned, and in other streets too.

When the clamour lessened, my father said, “This must be a conspiracy against the City through her gods. The enemy is behind it.”—“Which enemy?” said Phalinos. “You mean that impiety has conspired with strong wine. What man but one defies the law from insolence, and the gods for sport? But this is beyond everything, on the eve of war. The gods send that only the guilty suffer.”—“I can guess whom you mean,” my father said. “But you will find you are mistaken. We have seen wine make him extravagant, but not foolish; I have faith in the oracles of Dionysos.”—“That may be your opinion.” Phalinos never liked even the civillest disagreement. “We know that everything is forgiven to Alkibiades by those who have enjoyed his good graces, briefly though it might be.” I don’t know what my father eventually replied to this; for he noticed me standing by, and, turning angrily, asked if I meant to let the whole day pass while I loitered in the streets.

I got myself breakfast, called by tutor, and set off for school. You can imagine we had enough to talk about on the way. He was a Lydian called Midas, who could read and write; an expensive slave to use for a pedagogue, but my father did not hold with putting children in the charge of slaves who are good for nothing else. Midas had been saving some time to buy himself out, by copying speeches for the courts in his spare time; but he had cost a good deal, I believe as much as ten minas, so he had not got half yet. My father had lately promised him, however, that if he looked after me well till I was seventeen, he should have his freedom as a gift to the gods.

There were broken Herms in every street. Some people were saying an army must have been hired for the work. Others said no, it was a band of drunks rioting home after a party; and we heard Alkibiades’ name again.

Outside the school a crowd of boys stood gazing at the Herm there. It had been a good one, presented by Perikles. Some of the little boys, pointing, began to giggle and squeak; on which one of the seniors went up and told them to behave themselves. Recognising a friend of mine, Xenophon son of Gryllos, I called to him. He came over, looking serious. He was a handsome boy, big for his age, with dark red hair and grey eyes; his tutor stuck close to him, for he already attracted attention.

“It must have been the Corinthians,” he said to me, “trying to make the gods fight against us in the war.”—“They must be simple then,” I said. “Don’t they think the gods can see in the dark?”—“Some of the country people near our farm hardly know the god from the image he lives in. Now a thing like this could never happen in Sparta.”—“I should say not. All they have outside their dirty huts is a heap of stones for a Herm. Let your Spartans alone for once.” This was an old quarrel between us, so I could not keep from adding, “Or perhaps they did it; they are allies of Syracuse after all.”—“The Spartans!” he said staring at me. “The most godfearing people in Helas? You know quite well that they never touch anything sacred, even in open war, and now we’re at truce with them. Are you mad?”

Remembering that we had once drawn each other’s blood over the Spartans, I let it rest. He was only repeating what he heard from his father, whom he was very fond of, and whose views were the same as those my grandfather had held till his death. All the ruling houses of former days, who hated the intrusion of the commons into public affairs, wanted peace, and a Spartan alliance. This was true not only in Athens, but all over Hellas. The Spartans had not changed their laws in three centuries, and their Helots kept the station the gods had ordained for them. I had had enough of that myself, in the time of the Rhodian. But you could never be angry long with Xenophon. He was a good-hearted boy, who would share anything he had, and was never at a loss in a tight place.

“I daresay you’re right,” I said, “if their King is an example. Have you heard about King Agis’ wedding? The bride was in bed and he was just crossing the threshold, when the earth happened to shake. So, obedient to the omen, he turned round, went straight out again, and vowed not to go back for a year. If that’s not piety, what is?” I had hoped to make him laugh, for he liked a joke; but he saw nothing comic in it.

Just then the headmaster, Mikkos, came out angrily to call us in. He was taking us for Homer. What with the public disorder, and ours, he was in a fine temper and soon got out his thong.

After the music-lesson which came next, we could hardly wait to hang up our lyres and run out to the gymnasium. While we were stripping we saw the colonnade full of people; now we should hear the latest news. Our trainer had commanded a company at Delion, but today he could hardly make himself heard, and the flute for the exercises was quite drowned; so taking some of the best wrestlers to coach, he set the rest of us to practise. Our tutors bustled up, seeing us listening to the men in the colonnade; but they were all talking politics. One could always tell this some way off; when they were quarrelling over one of the boys, they kept their voices down.

Everyone seemed to know for certain who was guilty, and no two agreed. One said the Corinthians wanted to delay the war; “Nonsense,” said another; “this was done by people who knew the City like their own courtyards.”—“How not? Some of our foreign metics would sell their old fathers for five obols.”—“They work hard and make money. Crime enough for the unjust.” And so people who were rivals in love or politics, but had kept it quiet, were all at once openly reviling each other. It had never happened to me before to be surrounded by frightened men, and I was too young not to be shaken by it. I had not thought till then that such great impiety might bring a curse on the whole City, if it had been done by someone within.

Beside me some young men were blaming the oligarchs. “Only wait; they will try to fix this on the democrats, and then ask to carry arms for protection. Pisistratos the Tyrant’s trick. But at least he wounded his own head, not a god’s.” Naturally the oligarchs called this a piece of filthy demagogy, and voices rose, till a new one said, “Don’t blame the oligarchs nor the democrats, but one man alone. I know a witness who has taken sanctuary, fearing for his life. He swears that Alkibiades …”

Upon the name, there was a greater hubbub than ever. People began telling tales of his erotic feats, not very edifying to us boys, who listened attentively; others spoke of his extravagance, his seven chariots at Olympia, his race-horses, flute-girls, and hetairas; of how when he promoted a play or a chorus, he outdid everyone else in elegance and splendour by three to one. “It was for gold and loot that he began the Sicilian war.”—“Then why should he do this to hinder it?”—“He would do better still out of a tyranny.” The City never tired of gossip about Alkibiades. Tales twenty years old came up, about his insolence to his suitors when he was a boy.

“He has kept the war going for his own glory,” someone said. “If he had not fooled the Spartan envoys when they came to make peace, we should have it now.” But an angry voice, which had been trying a long time to be heard, cried out, “Shall I tell you the sin of Alkibiades? He was born too late into a City of little men. Why did the mob banish Aristides the Just? Because they were sick of hearing his virtue praised. They admitted it. It shamed them. Now they hate to see beauty and wit, valour and birth and wealth, united in one man. What keeps the democracy alive at all but the hatred of excellence; the desire of the base to see no head higher than their own?”

“Not so, by the gods. It is justice, the gift of Zeus to men.”—“Justice? If the gods give a man wisdom, or forethought, or skill, must he be brought down as if he had got them by theft? We shall be laming the best athletes soon, at the demand of the worst, in the name of justice. Or some citizen with pockmarks and a squint will lay a complaint against such a boy as this” (here he pointed suddenly at me) “and his nose will be broken, I suppose, for justice’s sake.”

At this laughter broke up the argument. The better-bred of them, seeing me confused, looked away, but one or two kept on staring. I saw Midas pursing his mouth, and walked away from them.

Of the few boys who had made some attempt to exercise, Xenophon was one. He had finished his bout, and came over to me. I thought he would say there would be less noise in Sparta. But he said, “Have you been listening? I’ll tell you an odd thing. Those who blame the Corinthians or the oligarchs all say it stands to reason, or that everything points to it. But those who blame Alkibiades all say that someone told them in the street.”—“So they do. Then perhaps there is something in it?”—“Yes; unless someone is putting it about.” He had an open face and quiet manners; you had to know him well to learn he had a head on his shoulders. He stood looking about the colonnade, then laughed to himself. “By the way, if you want to study with a Sophist when you leave, now’s the time to choose one.”

One could not blame him for laughing. I had forgotten, till he reminded me, that the Sophists were there. On any other day, each would have stood forth among his pupils like a flower among bees; now, seated on the benches or pacing the colonnade, they were questioning like the rest anyone who professed to know something; some with more seemliness than those around them, some not. Zenon was expressing fiercely his democratic opinions; Hippias, who was accustomed to treat his young men much as if they were still at school, had let them start a quarrel among themselves and was red in the face from calling them to order; Dionysodoros and his brother, cheapjack Sophists who would teach anything from virtue to rope-dancing at cut rates, were screaming like market-women, denouncing Alkibiades, and flying in a rage when people laughed, for he was well known to have taken them on together and refuted them both in half a dozen responses. Only Gorgias, with his long white beard and golden voice, though a Sicilian himself, looked as calm as Saturn; he sat with his hands folded in his lap, surrounded by grave young men whose grace of posture announced their breeding; when a word or two came over, you could hear that they were wholly engaged with philosophy.