The Wooden Walls of Thermopylae (17 page)

This was something Themistocles had not anticipated; the press of sailors swarming round the triremes as they moored up disturbed his pitch, which was approaching its climax. But, as ever, he adapted.

“And see, fellow Athenians, here are the men who will sail and fight from these ships.”

We milled about him as he spoke so I was able to catch every word; they’ve stayed with me and I report this accurately: mark it well.

“These are the means by which Athens will grow great; these are the ships that no others can match: the first of a new breed. You must know, Athenians, that we have to thank noble Cleinias and a certain other who wishes to remain hidden for them. Men of the polis who put the city of the Goddess above the wealth in their purses.”

This news took us all by surprise; you could hear the gasps of surprise all around the harbour. Today it still surprises me.
Not only that Cleinias should bear the huge cost of building a trireme but that he should stand shoulder to shoulder with Themistocles as they were presented to the people. It defies logic, and yet most of what we achieved in those days of glory defeats objective reasoning. Best to surmise that we were touched by the Gods. Cleinias spoke a few words: I can’t recall any of them, then Themistocles concluded.

“Great ships, but there are only two. Give us two hundred and no Persian invasion will ever succeed. Give us three hundred and Athens will be queen of the seas.”

Simple and clear, see: no faction or mention of the Ostracism, no mention of himself. He was careful to say us, not me. He spoke for the city and an Alkmaionid stood with him. Megacles might as well have packed his bags there and then: in those moments he’d lost the contest before a single ostraka was cast into the pot.

“Now return to your daily lives and think how you can help the city pay for three hundred such ships. Let our leaders know your views.”

With a final cheer the crowd began to drift away; they’d had more than their money’s worth. The skeleton crew who brought the ships across from Corinth, where they’d been built, climbed down onto the dock ready to be paid off. They mingled with Athenian sailors on the quay and talk about how to handle the new triremes spread like wildfire.

The other trireme, ‘High Citadel’, came first: Cleinias climbed aboard and made his way to the trierarch’s seat followed by his followers. He was an Alkmaionid but his act that day was touched by greatness and he commanded the ship with distinction in the coming wars.

That left the Athene Nike awaiting her family. Themistocles gestured to Cimon.

“Son of Miltiades, the Athene Nike was your hero father’s
flagship, yours is the honour of boarding first.”

Then Cimon gave us an indication of his greatness as leader.

“Thanks, noble son of Neocles, for the honour you do my father’s memory. I will be honoured enough simply to fight from her deck. Let the heart of the ship enter first: the men who sailed and fought her under him.”

He indicated to Lysias that he should board first, followed by Ariston. They moved towards the gang plank but this strange ritual had one more surprise in store. Ariston, eyes wet with tears, grunted.

“Beg pardon, trierarch, but luck’s a powerful important thing.”

Lysias stared at him blankly but others understood; Themistocles threw back his head and laughed.

“Well, go on, you won’t be asked twice, Mandrocles.”

Cimon grabbed my arm and steered me towards the ship. I reached up to touch the statue of the Goddess in the prow: it felt warm, as if alive. Then I moved along the gang plank onto the deck and stood while each man touched me for luck as he boarded. In that way, I returned to my home.

Megacles lost the Ostracism but the victory came at a high price. He created a myth concerning what divided the city. A division that haunts us still today. He changed the nature of the struggle, or at least cast it into sharp and simple relief. To us, those who followed Themistocles, the issue was between those who knew the Persians would return and those who preferred to bury their heads in the sand. We wanted ships to defend the city; they would betray it.

This wasn’t the analysis Megacles spouted: let me give you a flavour of his thesis. He didn’t speak the words; that was done for him by Aristides.

“Athenians, remember your roots in the land, remember what makes the city sacred: our land. The land we tend and water, the land our blood defends; the sacred land soaked in the blood of our hoplites stretching back to the time of heroes. That is our tradition: men of worth who can afford the panoply of hoplite armour and defend the city are those who decide how we govern the city. Their blood nourishes the earth, which nourishes us. Leave the siren calls of the sea, of the fleet crewed by men of no account, landless men, violent men who envy your virtue.”

Get the picture? Recognise it? He established the battle lines within the city: traditional hoplite against feckless sailor,
tradition and stability against anarchy and the Demos, land versus sea. Powerful, isn’t it? And it’s causing as much trouble for Pericles today as it did back then for Themistocles.

Powerful because it appealed to small landowners scratching a living from the stony soil of their poor farms. Men struggling to fulfil their obligation to defend the city in their hoplite armour. Farmers tend to follow the traditional lead; their lives are too hard to think of anything fanciful that draws them off the land.

So we had another schism: struggling hoplite landholders scattered around Attica raged against the city dwellers, tradesmen, sailors, artisans and the growing mass living any way they could. The former supporting Megacles, and us who wanted him gone. Not the best of ways for a city to prepare for war.

We got the first real intimation of how this was going to work that night. Obedient to Themistocles’s request and buoyed up by the new triremes, we were roaming the city in bands shouting our demands that Megacles be the one exiled. The re-united crew of the Athene Nike being particularly vociferous: we strayed from our natural stamping grounds around the Ceramicus and were entering the Agora when it happened.

I was near the head of our group talking to Theodorus; we’d had a few drinks and were in boisterous spirits, some of the lads were singing. We turned onto the Panathenia through the small square opposite the old fountain house when our way was blocked. They were strung out across the road, a group of about thirty wearing long homespun cloaks. We laughed at first; Theodorus shouted.

“Hey onion breaths, you’re too late, the festival is over.”

That’s when we found out why they were wearing cloaks.

They pushed them back off their shoulders to reveal
elements of hoplite war gear: shoulder guards, padded jerkins, even chest armour. All hefted swords and some carried shields, but I didn’t hang around long enough to look closely. They pitched into us and we broke and scattered. Drunk as we were, we still had the sense for that: sailors with knives and clubs against armed men with swords. It wasn’t a contest and those of us who’d fought as hoplites at Marathon ran first.

We kept running till we reached the Ceramicus but they’d probably given up chasing long before then.

All the city laws, of course, forbade them from parading in the city in their armour but as they were acting in defence of the men who made and maintained those laws, there was little chance of those laws being upheld. So in the couple of nights before the test of the ostraka, the city was more peaceful than might have been expected.

Peaceful but split as we stuck to our areas: Ceramicus, Piraeus and the poorer areas by the ancient walls while the state buildings and area of richer housing flanking the Acropolis were guarded by this new militia. We weren’t too worried for as Themistocles said,

“Farmers have to return to their farms. We live here.”

He was right; it was unsustainable. The day of the contest dawned and the atmosphere in the city of the Goddess was febrile. As a Xenos I had no right to cast a sherd but I wasn’t going to miss out on a day that would provide excitement and entertainment. Don’t believe that back in those days, the casting of the ostraka was carried out like some solemn religious duty where men behaved like priests and acted with dispassion.

Every man went prepared for violence and women were even more strictly restricted within the precincts of the household than was usual. Remember Ostracism, before its
extended use by Themistocles, was rare and it brought all the animosity and rancour in the city out into the open and legitimised it.

Cimon was too young to participate but he led the household contingent to our allocated collection point. Not only the household but all his father’s men who’d kept allegiance, and that included the men of the Athene Nike.

Like his father, he knew how to do things in style. We gathered at dawn in the courtyard and, as the loyal gathered, soon spilled out of it. Household servants and slaves threaded their way through the throng with platters of flat bread, cheese, honeyed cakes and pitchers of spiced wine.

Almost half of us there weren’t eligible to cast a sherd but we joined the boisterous circle round the ancient family Herme, set into the wall facing out at the street. Not one of the mass-produced copies that the new potters of the Piraeus churn out these days. This was a work of art produced by one of the old masters for a great sum. Its beard and erect cock aggressively jutting, but its eyes knowing and unsettling.

Cimon placed a fresh garland of laurel on its head and after speaking the ancient prayer, most of the meaning of which is lost, he turned and headed downhill towards the Agora. We followed shouting and cheering in his wake. The sun rose; it would be the first truly hot day of the year.

By the time we’d reached the outskirts of the Agora we’d already broken and scattered a hostile group who tried to dispute our passage. Cimon felled their leader, a bearded drunk, with one swift vicious blow. Still a youth, but halfway to becoming the ruthless instrument of death of his mature years.

In the Agora things were calmer: at opposite ends were a group led by Themistocles’s brother and, at the end we entered, a group led by Xanthippus and Aristides. It appeared neither wanted things to deteriorate into a bloodbath. As we
passed Aristides shouted,

“How would your father react to the shame of you leading his clients to cast their sherds in favour of the enemies of his blood, son of Miltiades?”

I could see Cimon was stung by this: his face coloured but he walked on by, keeping his silence. Aristides shouted after him,

“Casting sherds in order to destroy the sacred principles of Eunomia and pass the city of the Goddess into the hands of those no better than barbarians.”

Cimon became a loyal, generous and open handed leader but never one who could dissemble: his emotions always lurked just beneath the surface. In this way he was like his father. This parting jibe was too much for his self-control. He turned and shouted back his own challenge and for a moment, two heroes out of the Trojan stories confronted each other.

“You dare say that, Aristides? Standing beside the man who traduced my father in court and brought him down when he was too badly hurt to defend himself.”

I could see from Aristides’s face he regretted this, but not as much as Xanthippus who could see where Cimon’s ire was directed. This wasn’t just about the governance of the polis; this was blood feud. Like his father’s, Cimon’s anger once roused was slow to cool.

“Betrayed my father while he was fighting our city’s enemies, you worthless piece of Alkmaionid shit.”

His hands reached for the dagger at his belt and in the madness of that moment I think he would have killed Xanthippus – and bearing in mind where Xanthippus’s son has taken our city, maybe that would have been for the best. But of course, not being able to see the future, back then we didn’t know that.

Those of us who loved him best restrained him while
Aristides and others led Xanthippus away. That must have been no easier, for Xanthippus had listened to an insufferable insult hurled at him, in public, by a youth. Had Cimon not had the self-control to keep walking at the first jibe then this exchange at close quarters would have ended in a death and the story of Athens would have been very different. All the same, a mark had been put down.

There is a question that is asked in our courts of law: “Who benefits?” The answer that day was clear to everyone: Themistocles. Cimon should have been a natural sympathiser for the views of Aristides and his clique. Now, despite the differences, for the time he was bound to their enemy. No bad thing either that day. Those of us eligible collected their ostraka. Those who could scratch the name of Megacles by themselves took pride in choosing pristine sherds. Some of the more literary amplified his name with a pithy phrase such as ‘lover of Datis’, referring to the Persian satrap liberal with money, or ‘Persian friend’.

For those unable to write at all there was a range of sherds waiting with Megacles’s name already scratched on them. Once a man had his ostrakon, he entered into a large square penned off area in the centre of the Agora. This pen had ten entrances: one for each tribe, and officials checked each man as he came to throw his sherd with its scribbled name into the giant pithoi. This was done to make sure that no one could vote more than once.

Friends who cast their sherds in this way said that looking into the giant pithoi in which the ostraka were then thrown they could see hundreds of versions of Megacles’s name. We weren’t meant to know until the official count and announcement stating who would be leaving the city for an exile of ten years, but by nightfall it was clear.

Then came the news that Megacles was that evening hosting a farewell dinner for his friends and would leave the city
next day, crossing the Megarid, headed for Corinth. So there was no need to wait to hold our own celebrations.

Themistocles processed through the areas where his support was strongest. But his message wasn’t one of victory; he read the omens far too shrewdly for that and was never one to look back, only forwards. As night was falling, he addressed us by the light of flickering and greasy tapers from under the shadow of the Hangman’s Gate. A huge crowd of us, composed largely of the poor of Athens, eager for change and simmering with excitement, had gathered. We were in the mood for celebration but in that we were to be disappointed.

“Friends, today you served the City and its Goddess well, but there’s no cause for celebration.”

This wasn’t what we expected; even the drunks amongst us were stilled. There was silence for a while after which someone, probably planted with the question in advance, shouted,

“Why’s it not a cause to celebrate when an aristo traitor is ostracised, Father of the Demos?”

Despite what he liked to think, no one called him that so it must have been one of his servants, but it gave him the chance to tell us what he’d intended to all along.

“It is never a cause for celebration when Athenian bites Athenian and it’s even less cause when there’s more biting to come.”

This was so cryptic that he didn’t need to rely on a crony to ask any questions; several of us including Ariston were shouting.

“What do you mean more to come?”

“I’ll tell you, give an answer that will turn even a man like you, Ariston, who’s steered a trireme into battle and who stood in the front line at Marathon, pale at the thought.”

Ariston forgot his question at this and just stood there beaming with pride, which made him look a bit simple.

“I’ll give a full answer, no less than a man like you deserves
to hear and I’ll deliver it in the plain language that we of the Demos speak, not the flowery rhetoric of the five hundred.”

If anyone was an expert in flowery rhetoric it was him, but, as usual, he got away with it.

“Today we rid the rat’s nest of one aristo, agreed?”

We all shouted our agreement, this was more like it. But it didn’t last.

“But what do we know about rats, Athenians? Yes, you have it, they hunt in packs. Now we’ve stirred up the Alkmaionid nest. It’s not about driving one of them out of Athens; that only leaves the others to do his dirty work for him. And that’s why we have no cause for celebration.”

He’d reached the difficult bit and the more astute of us were on the brink of reaching it with him.

“Yes friends, that means against our desire, for the sake of the city, we are compelled as good Athenians to deal with the two most dangerous.”

He paused as if he could not bring himself to use the word rats, and then continued his voice shaky with emotion. I’d watched him operating at close quarters and saw through the act but most of my friends swallowed it.

“Yes, it means for the sake of the city we must exile two men who stood with us at Marathon.”

He put his hands over his eyes as if to hide tears, some in the crowd groaned; I suspect men who fought in the regiments of Aristides and Xanthippus on that day.

“I feel your grief; no one could grieve over this more than I do.”

He stopped and performed a splendid piece of theatre, ripping the neck and sleeves of his tunic to display scars that looked even from a distance deep red. A much deeper red than they’d been when I last saw them.

“I took these wounds fighting beside my brother in arms, Aristides, and he took scars for me. Those of you fighting
in a less desperate part of the field will have taken wounds alongside Xanthippus. But you must be brave and dig deep into your reserves, fellow Marathoni, for if I can sacrifice my love for these two men on the altar Of the Goddess for the sake of our city, then …”

He had to pause, overcome by a prolonged and noisy show of weeping, and it was only when his brother ostentatiously placed an arm round his shoulder to lead him away that he shrugged him off and continued.