The Wooden Walls of Thermopylae (15 page)

Then, out of this preternatural silence, there was a deafening clap of thunder straight overhead and the sea which had been a turbid listless mass began to heave.

I’ve never seen a storm like that one, conjured up out of nothing by the Gods. From nowhere a strong wind was blowing and the figurehead of the Athene Nike began to toss like a spooked stallion. A jagged streak of forked lightning hit the sea about half a stade away and suddenly everything aboard was noise and commotion. Orders were screeched as Ariston tried to wrestle the twin rudders to point us at the shore.

Holding on to the side of the trierarch’s seat, I watched in horror as the flat surface was transformed into a watery mountain range. We balanced about fifteen spear lengths above a foaming trough, then – like some lever had been pressed releasing us – we tumbled down into the foam tossed abyss. We were underwater, the deck swamped by a universe of water. I held on for dear life, others weren’t so fortunate. When we came up there were spaces on the rowing bench. Rope, smashed oars and other debris were strewn across the normally immaculately neat deck.

Then we were climbing another mountain of water, and I
saw Ariston’s face: it was a mask of terror. He had no control and we were lost. The boat was coming to pieces, there was a great crack running up the mast, it began to vibrate violently. We were thrown about the sea like we were a child’s plaything and turned right round.

I could see land ahead; we must be being blown back towards the island. With a splintering of wood, the mast fell across the rowing benches and down into the sea. It was still attached and began to act as a type of counter rudder. All was screaming, cracking timber, thunder and howling wind. I covered my head with my cloak and waited for death.

The crash, when it finally came, drove all the breath out of me. I wondered for a moment if I was dead because the sickening movement had reduced to a rolling of the hull. Someone grabbed me, shouting,

“Get to the prow, help pull her out.”

I got up and stumbled for’ard: the prow was a mess, the figurehead gone. Down below men were standing in the water. At first I didn’t understand.

“Get down and help them, damn you.”

I jumped, landed on shingle, was knocked over by a wave; someone helped me to my feet. It came to me that we’d been thrown up onto shore. The Gods were saving us for another day.

We couldn’t save the Athene Nike though. She broke up on that shore. My link with Samos, my most loyal friend, pounded to pieces. Next morning we still sat on that beach, those of us who survived, that is. We were in an inlet staring across at the Attic mainland, gathered round the salvaged figurehead of the Athene Nike. Between us and the mainland there was a deep water channel which fishing boats were sailing out to sea blown by an early morning breeze.

Ariston had been weeping for his ship.

“The barky, the lovely barky, my ship. Gone, my ship.”

Themistocles, who was fully recovered now back on land, tried to comfort the man whose advice he’d refused.

“She’ll rise again helmsman, soon you’ll sail her successor.”

The words had no effect so, after watching the fishing boats a while, he changed tack.

“Tell me is there a breeze blowing down this channel every morning?”

“Far as I know there is.”

“What is this bay?”

“That’s Salamis, sir, it’s the bay of Salamis.”

Themistocles was good as his word regarding his promise to the Gods. He began his prosecution of Megacles as soon as we got back. So by Spring festival the following year, the council of five hundred were gathered to rule on another Ostracism. This one didn’t go quite as smoothly. I was eating honey cakes and drinking hot spiced wine with Aeschylus and Lyra when the summons came. Aeschylus was excitable; there was talk that his trilogy for this year’s Dionysia might win the prize goat and the celebrity that would follow.

He’d been watching over Lyra since she’d been hurt at an entertainment in a merchant’s house that had spun out of control. A rich Thracian trader had taken her to a private chamber and used her beyond the limits of her role. Taken her by force, brutally, as if it was her agony he enjoyed rather than the act itself.

Demetrius, the girls’ guard, had been drinking elsewhere in the house and therefore arrived too late to intervene. The only positive consequence of his tardiness was to ensure that it will be a long time before the Thracian can use his generative equipment again without considerable pain.

For Lyra, though, healing would take longer. She looked wasted and feverish: round her eyes there remained visible signs of bruising, although the real scarring was internal.
The owner of the flute girls’ stable had demanded a hefty sum for the damage, most of which he kept for himself.

I’d been trying to persuade her to move on, but with no success.

“Move on to what, Mandrocles? What else is there for women like me in Athens? The mistress of a rich man for a while perhaps, but that never lasts.”

She was right: what else was there? But she’d obviously been thinking about it more deeply.

“Anyway, I’ll have to give it up soon, I’ll be too old and then what?”

We didn’t need to answer; we’d both seen enough of ex-flute girls grown too old plying their trade in the Ceramicus amongst the tombs.

“So now we’ve something else in common, Mandrocles: life has damaged us both.”

She looked hurt too, no brave face this time, too much suffering. I think if there was ever a moment when I came near to saying something real to her, maybe even offering her an alternative, that was it. But Aeschylus was there and I’ve never been good at talking in front of others. Even without him there wouldn’t have been time, as Demetrius hammered at the door.

“Themistocles bids you attend him at his house by the …”

“We know where his house is.”

Aeschylus answered for us, cutting off Demetrius in mid flow, to his chagrin. He enjoyed any opportunity to extend his role from the routine thuggish tasks to something more elevated. Although, to be fair to him, he tried to take good care of the girls without attempting to sample any of the merchandise.

The house was crowded: all the great man’s clients were there and a surprising cross section of the Athenian Polis: men who you would both expect and not expect to find
in the house of Themistocles; Xanthippus, for one. The atmosphere was febrile and rumour stalked the corridors and whispered in quiet corners. This was more than just the machinations of the Athenian Polis: there was a fast ship just moored in the Piraeus that had brought news from Persia.

Darius was at last dead, it seemed, but that’s all that could be agreed upon. There was a school of thought that believed him to have been dead for some time, the news having been kept a secret to prevent turmoil. Others asserted he’d been toppled in a palace coup and then killed after being blinded and gelded. There was no clear evidence for either of these propositions but then most people love to complicate a simple truth.

Conspiracy and plot are ever seductive, particularly with those either too lazy or lacking the intellect to apply the rigours of logic. I’m surprised to find myself writing these words: it would appear that the influence of the parasite philosophers who clutter up the city’s public places and who I’ve always detested must have found a chink in my armour.

What everyone was agreed upon however was that this must have imposed a state of stasis on the empire and that whatever its intentions for us had been we would now be granted a respite. We believed this until Themistocles, whose face shone with an unnatural sheen of excitement, shouted us to quiet and said,

“Why behave like children? Start to think. There is a succession in the empire, Xerxes will succeed: at this very moment he occupies the throne of gold and ivory. Mardonius is his man and what satrap can any of you name who can withstand those two and survive?”

This was said with absolute certainty and later I came to wonder how he was in a position to be so certain. Later still I understood but back then, like everyone else, I just waited, silent, to hear what would come next.

“But.”

He paused, milking the moment keeping us in suspense.

“But, and it’s a considerable but: he won’t rest secure until he proves himself.”

He cast his eyes across us as we waited, silent, even Xanthippus. I saw Aeschylus studying him in fascination and if you care and know where to look you will find much of the manner of Themistocles in his plays. Even down to his last ones: the spell Themistocles cast over him was never broken. In the silence I think we were all starting to anticipate what was coming next.

“He can never think the crown and diadem are truly his until he asserts his authority, and we all know the only way he can do that, don’t we?”

Well, we were beginning to at least suspect.

“And not only he but every Persian who slunk back home in shame with his tail between his legs from our glory at Marathon. Every Persian from ambitious young Mardonius and the proud satraps who shat themselves with fear as they ran from us that day to the badly led common soldiers and the grieving mothers, wives and daughters they’d left at home. Since that day no one in the empire is at ease with themselves, from the Great King to the slave who empties his piss pot. They itch with shame and there’s only one way to scratch that itch.”

One of Themistocles’s few weaknesses was that he obviously enjoyed holding men in the palm of his hand too much. He was certainly enjoying himself now.

“Well, isn’t there, Athenians?”

No one answered; we knew we weren’t meant to.

“Because you know what the itch is, don’t you?”

Still silence: all Athenians know and enjoy the rhetorical question.

“Well, you should do, because it’s us; we’re the itch and until he’s scratched us good and proper he can never really be the Great King. So don’t go dreaming that the death of Darius is good news and it delays the inevitable because it doesn’t. It’s the exact opposite. The death of Darius has brought the war nearer to us, almost near enough to touch.”

This wasn’t good news and standing there in his house we didn’t know how to react. After Marathon, despite his warnings, we’d convinced ourselves we were safe and it would never come; or if it did, it would be far in the future. Some men let out involuntary groans of anguish.

“Near enough to touch a city that’s not ready. A city that’s done nothing but ignore the frightening reality since Marathon. Where is our fleet? Where is the Greek Alliance? Where is the pledge of support from Sparta?”

Now we were scared, particularly those of us who’d stood and fought at Marathon.

“And why are we in this state of pathetic unreadiness? You know, you know, don’t you?”

We knew he was going to tell us. And now, as with all great orators his mood had changed: thunder replacing sarcasm. He face red suffused with blood anger.

“Well, I’ll tell you this. We’re unready because those fucking great men, those aristos, those good men have been too busy greasing their own palms. Too busy greasing their sticky palms to look out for the safety of the city of the Goddess.”

I don’t know how he could keep a straight face considering his was the reputation for palm greasing. But I think that one of the traits of a powerful speaker is the ability to, for the moment, believe every word he is saying. Themistocles certainly seemed to and thundered on.

“Those same Alkmaionids who didn’t want to face the enemy last time, who even tried to betray us by signalling
to their Persian friends on the field of Marathon. They are the ones who’ve opposed every measure of mine to prepare us for war.”

He paused again, but this time he was forced to. I’d been watching Xanthippus while Themistocles spoke and from his face it was clear that whatever their agreement had been, this went well beyond it. At first he’d looked amused, then surprised. At the mention of his clan his face changed; he seemed to be on the point of interrupting. Instead he gestured to those around him and walked out. About half a dozen followed him.

“There! See there, friends! We have proof: as soon as the voice of truth is heard the aristo flinches and leaves the house. Only the Demos understands. Understands that if we are to fight the Persians there is another battle we have to win first.”

We understood this, before our very eyes the battle lines had been redrawn – and not in Themistocles’s favour, it would appear. Most of what he did seemed to make sense only in retrospect but it seemed particularly rash to reduce his support so publically. If he sensed this himself he didn’t show it.

“The five hundred meet tomorrow in the Agora and they need to understand what the city of the Goddess thinks, so burn the midnight oil and rouse up our support. All the friends of the Demos need to be gathered before the rostra for tomorrow’s meeting. This city needs to know what the death of Darius really means to us.”

We were thus sent on our way and a long night it proved to be. Especially for me, as I was not to go with my friends and the others. Part of Themistocles’s genius was his ability to back up his vision with an understanding of the importance of detail. He knew that no plan, however brilliantly conceived, was worth anything unless it was buttressed with
thorough organisation. He understood the connections, the way things would unravel if all the ends weren’t tied up.

“Mandrocles, you go home, stay with Cimon; this isn’t a night for him and his hot-headed aristo friends to be out on the streets getting in the way and making trouble. Make sure he keeps out of the way.”

He must have seen the look of disappointment on my face.

“It’s only one night boy, over these next months you’ll get more excitement than you can handle.”

So I sloped off back to the house, back to a night far worse than I’d envisaged: Callias was there, he’d come for his bride. Nothing about this travesty marriage was less than underhand and his presence, against all tradition, in the house that night was no exception. He was in the andron drinking with Cimon and I saw from their expressions neither man was comfortable with their position.

It seemed that Cimon had no intention of going out that night and my attendance was pointless. But I had my orders, so I slunk away to my cell where I sat disconsolate. Close by, in terms of measurement, but a continent away in terms of possibility were the women’s quarters. Somewhere in there Elpinice was spending her last hours of freedom. I don’t know whether she wept. I know that I did.

After the house was asleep and the shameful comings and goings ended, I could stand it no more. Cimon had retired for the night and my obligation to Themistocles had been fulfilled. I tucked a sharp dagger into my belt and left the house. I had some vague idea of joining up with the others and hoped for a brawl where I could vent my rage and frustration in the blood of some enemy of the Demos. But again I was out of luck.

Whatever business had been conducted in the streets and bars of the polis was long over; even the whores in the Ceramicus were finishing for the night. It was a clear night;
the earlier rain had washed away the clouds and the stars were out over the acropolis. There was a gentle breeze and it carried with it a promise of summer.

I found myself outside the house where Lyra and her fellow flute girls were housed: through a crack in the exterior courtyard wall I could see a glimmer of yellow lamp light. I scratched at the door and to my surprise heard the bolts being drawn back and the door opened. I found myself looking into the scarred face of Demetrius.

“I wondered when you’d show up again: she’s still awake, you can go in.”

As I walked past, he grabbed my shoulder and hissed into my face so close that I caught the full weight of his wine and onion breath.

“Hurt her in any way and I’ll break every little bone in your body.”

I knew he would, but in a strange way liked him for the sentiment. I placed my hand on the door to her room prior to knocking and it swung open. By the light of the one dim lamp on the table I could make out a small shape huddled on the bed.

“Lyra?”

There was no reply but I sensed she was awake and stood for a moment hovering at the threshold. I wasn’t sure quite what I’d come expecting, but whatever it was I suspected that I wasn’t going to get it. A man shouldn’t have to hover at the door of a flute girl’s room and I was about to leave when:

“Mandrocles.”

Spoken weakly, barely audible; I pushed the door closed behind me and walked across to the bed. The smell of the room was a cross between a sick room and a rich man’s brothel: fetid and cloyingly sweet. The room was too hot and she was covered in a sweat drenched sheet, hair plastered to the sides of her head.

She’d lost weight, the confident beauty transformed to a wasted fever-wracked waif. It came to me that this was the fate that awaited her and all girls like her in this trade, and I was surprised at the thought. Not at its accuracy but that a man like me should be bothered by such a consideration: whatever happened to flute girls was part of the natural order.

I sat at the foot of the bed, inches away from her feet. Neither of us spoke or moved. I don’t know what she felt but I felt foolish. What was I doing here when it was obvious the shop was closed and wasn’t going to open? And even if it did, I didn’t want the merchandise in this condition. The fetor of the room was affecting me: I began to sweat.

Then she began to speak, faltering and broken.