IX

When Demosthenes arrived at Syracuse, the position of affairs was as

follows: the blockading wall of the Athenians still extended in an

unbroken line from the circular fort on Epipolae to the camp and naval

station of Nicias at the head of the Great Harbour; but the Athenians

were cut off from access to the northern slope of Epipolae by the

Syracusan counterwall, which had been carried up the whole length of

the plateau as far as the hill of Euryelus. Along the northern edge of

the cliff the Syracusans had established three fortified camps, where

the defenders of the counterwall had their quarters, and on the summit

of Euryelus a fort had been erected, which held the key to the whole

system of defence.

Demosthenes saw at once that, before any progress could be made with

the siege of Syracuse, it was necessary to gain possession of the

counterwall, and confine the Syracusans within the limits of their

city. The sooner he made the attempt, the greater was his chance of

success; for every day wasted would give new confidence to the enemy,

and the condition in which he found the troops of Nicias was a visible

warning against the fatal consequences of delay. An attack made on the

cross-wall from its southern side ended in total failure; his

siege-engines were burnt, and the storming-parties repulsed at every

point. The only course which remained was to march round to the

north-western extremity of the plateau, carry the fort of Euryelus, and

assail the Syracusans within their own lines. After consulting with his

colleagues, Demosthenes determined to try the hazardous method of a

night-attack, hoping thus to take the garrison on Euryelus by surprise.

He himself, with Eurymedon and Menander, took the command, and the

whole Athenian army was engaged in the adventure, except those who

remained behind with Nicias to guard the camp. On a moonlight night in

August, at the hour of the first watch, the march began. Moving

cautiously up the valley of the Anapus, they turned the northern end of

the hill, and reached the path by which Lamachus had ascended in the

spring of the previous year. At first all seemed to promise success to

the Athenians unobserved by the enemy, Demosthenes ascended the hill,

stormed the fort, and, drove the garrison back on the three fortified

camps which flanked the Syracusan counterwall on its northern side. The

fugitives raised the alarm, and the call was promptly answered by a

picked troop of six hundred hoplites, who were stationed nearest to the

point of danger. These men made a gallant stand, but they were

overpowered by superior numbers, and thrust back on the main body of

the Syracusans, who were now advancing under Gylippus to the rescue.

They in their turn were forced to give ground before the impetuous

charge of Demosthenes, and a general panic seemed about to spread

through the whole Syracusan army. Already the Athenians had begun to

throw down the battlements of the counterwall, and if they were allowed

to proceed, Syracuse would once more be exposed to imminent danger.

But now occurred one of those sudden turns of fortune which were so

common in Greek warfare. As the soldiers of the Athenian van rushed

forward too hotly, wishing to complete the rout of the enemy they fell

into disorder, and in this condition they were confronted by a stout

little troop of Boeotian hoplites, who had found their way to Syracuse

earlier in the summer. This unexpected resistance checked the furious

onset of the Athenians, and the Boeotians, pursuing their advantage,

charged in solid phalanx and put them to flight. Once more the tide of

battle had turned against Athens. Restored to confidence by the steady

valour of their allies, the Syracusans closed their ranks, and advanced

in dense masses up the hill. A scene of indescribable horror and

confusion ensued, so that no one was afterwards able to give a clear

account of what had happened. On the narrow neck of land which forms

the western end of Epipolae two great armies were rushing to the

encounter. On one side was the main body of the Athenians, still

ignorant of the defeat of their comrades, and hurrying forward to share

in the victory. On the other side was the whole host of Syracuse,

advancing with deafening shouts to meet them; and in the middle were

the men of Demosthenes, flying in headlong rout before the conquering

Boeotians. In the uncertain light, the fugitives were at first mistaken

for enemies, and many of them perished miserably by the spears of their

own countrymen. On came the Syracusans, bearing down all before them;

but the Athenians, as they strove to escape, were flung back upon the

enemy by fresh bodies of their own men, who were still thronging by

thousands up the northern path of Euryelus. All semblance of order was

now lost in the Athenian army, which was broken up into detached

parties, some flying, some advancing, and shouting their watchword to

all whom they met, so as to learn whether they had to do with friend or

foe. But the Syracusans soon learnt the watchword, which thus became a

means of betraying the Athenians to their own destruction. To add to

the confusion, the Dorian allies of Athens raised a paean, or war-song,

so similar to that of the Syracusans, that the Athenians fled at their

approach supposing them to be enemies. The grand army of Demosthenes,

which had set out with such high hopes, was now no better than a mob of

wild and desperate men, friend fighting against friend, and citizen

against citizen. At length the whole multitude turned and fled, each

man seeking to save himself as best he could. Some, hard pressed by the

enemy, flung themselves from the cliffs, and were dashed to pieces on

the rocks below; others succeeded in reaching the plain, and found

their way back to the camp of Nicias; while not a few lost their way,

and wandered about the country until the following day, when they were

hunted down and slain by the Syracusan horseman.

Demosthenes had done all that a man could to recover the ground lost by

Nicias, and resume the aggressive against Syracuse. His well-laid

scheme had ended disastrously, and only one course remained, consistent

with public duty and common sense. To waste the blood and treasure of

Athens in Sicily any longer would be suicidal folly. The Athenians at

home were in a state of siege, and needed every man and every ship for

the defence of their own territory, and the maintenance of their empire

in Greece. Sickness and despondency had already wrought dire havoc

among the troops encamped before Syracuse. To remain was utter ruin,

both to themselves and their fellow-citizens. The sea was still open,

and the new armament, with what remained of the old, would be strong

enough to secure their retreat. Let them embark without delay, turn

their backs on the fatal shores of Sicily, and hoist sail for home.

These arguments were urged by Demosthenes with unanswerable force at a

private meeting of the generals which was held immediately after the

defeat on Epipolae But unhappily for all those most nearly concerned in

the debate, the influence of Nicias was still supreme in the Athenian

camp; and to spur that gloomy trifler into decisive action was beyond

the power even of Demosthenes. Nicias knew that, if he gave the word to

retreat, in a few weeks he would have to stand before the bar of his

countrymen, and give an account of the great trust which he had

betrayed. It would be better, he thought, to perish under the walls of

Syracuse, than to brave that stern tribunal, and read his doom on those

angry, accusing faces. And apart from these selfish terrors, he was

still in communication with his partisans in Syracuse, who encouraged

him to wait for a favourable turn of affairs. Thus fettered to the spot

both by his hopes and his fears, he obstinately refused to move.

While Demosthenes argued, and Nicias demurred, Gylippus had not been

idle. A day or two after the battle, he once more left Syracuse, and

traversed the whole length of the island, collecting troops on his way.

At Selinus he was joined by the Peloponnesian and Boeotian soldiers who

had sailed from Taenarum early in the spring, and had just reached that

port, after a long and adventurous voyage. With this welcome addition

to his forces, and thousands more who had answered his call from all

parts of Sicily, he returned to Syracuse, and prepared to put out all

his strength in a general assault on the army and fleet of Athens.

The Athenians had not yet abandoned their lines on the southern side of

Epipolae, and from this position they watched the arrival of the new

army raised by Gylippus, as it defiled down the slope, and poured

through the gates of Syracuse to swell the ranks of their enemies. In

their own camp the state of things was growing worse every day, and

even Nicias now became convinced that to remain any longer would be

sheer madness. With the hearty concurrence of his colleagues, he gave

his vote for immediate departure, and the order was secretly passed

round the camp that every man should hold himself in readiness to go on

board, as soon as the signal was given. It was necessary to proceed

with caution, for if the enemy were informed of their purpose, they

would have to fight their way through the Syracusan fleet. The

preparations were accordingly made with as little noise as possible and

in a short time all was ready for the voyage. Night sank down on the

Athenian camp, but among all that vast multitude no one thought of

sleep, for the whole host was waiting in breathless eagerness for the

signal to embark. Over the eastern waters the full moon was shining,

making a long path of silver and pointing the way to home. But suddenly

a dark shadow touched the outer rim of that gleaming disk, and crept

stealthily on, until the whole face of the moon was veiled in darkness.

A whisper, a murmur, a shudder went round among those anxious watchers,

and before the shadow had passed away, ten thousand tongues were

eagerly discussing the meaning of that mysterious portent. Most were

agreed that it was a warning from heaven, forbidding their departure

until the angry powers had been appeased by sacrifice and prayer. In

the mind of Nicias, enslaved by the grossest superstition, there was no

room for doubt. He was surrounded by prophets, whose advice he sought

on every occasion, and guided by them he proclaimed that for thrice

nine days, the time required for a complete circuit of the moon, there

could be no talk of departing.

But the Athenians were soon engaged in a sterner task than the vain

rites of propitiation and penitential observance. The news of their

intended retreat, and its untoward interruption, so raised the spirits

of the Syracusans, that they resolved to risk another sea-fight, and

after some days spent in training their crews, they sailed out with

seventy-six ships, and offered battle, and Gylippus at the same time

attacked the Athenian lines by land. The Athenians succeeded in

repulsing the assault on their walls, but in the encounter between the

fleets, though they out-numbered the enemy by ten ships, they suffered

a decisive defeat. Eurymedon was slain, and eighteen vessels fell into

the hands of the Syracusans, who put all the crews to the sword.

The pride and ambition of the Syracusans now knew no bounds. Relieved

from all fear for the safety of their city they began to take a loftier

view of the struggle, and to grasp the full compass and grandeur of the

issues involved. It was no mere feud between two rival states, but a

great national conflict, which was to end in the downfall of a

wide-spread usurpation, and the deliverance of a hundred cities from

bondage. The whole naval and military forces of Athens lay crippled and

helpless within their grasp; they would shatter to pieces the

instrument of tyranny, and win an immortal name as the liberators of

all Greece. Their first care was to prevent the escape of the

Athenians, and for this purpose they began to close the mouth of the

Great Harbour by a line of triremes and vessels of burden, anchored

broadside across the channel.

X

The Athenians were thus caught in a trap, and their only hope of saving

themselves was to force the barrier of the Great Harbour, and escape by

sea, or, failing that, to make their way by land to some friendly city.

As a last sad confession of defeat, they withdrew the garrison from

their walls on Epipolae, and reduced the dimensions of their camp,

confining it to a narrow space of the coast, where the fleet lay

moored. Every vessel which could be kept afloat was prepared for

action, and when the whole force was mustered, out of two great

armaments only a hundred and ten were found fit for service. A small

body of troops was left to guard the camp, and all the rest, except

such as were totally disabled by sickness, were distributed as

fighting-men among the ships. For the countrymen of Phormio had now

reverted to the primitive conditions of naval warfare, in which the

trireme was a mere vehicle for carrying troops, and not, as in the days

of that great captain, the chief weapon of offence. Every foot of

standing-room on the decks was occupied by a crowd of hoplites,

javelin-men, archers, and slingers, and on their prowess the issue of

the battle depended. To lay their vessels aboard the enemy with as

little delay as possible, and leave the rest to the soldiers, was now

the chief object of the Athenian captains; and the better to effect.

this, men were stationed on the prows, armed with grappling-irons, to

hold the attacking trireme fast, and prevent her from backing away

after the first shock of collision.

With hearts full of sad foreboding, the great multitude mustered on the

beach, and waited for the word to embark. On a rising ground, fronting

the camp, the generals; stood grouped in earnest consultation; then

every voice was hushed, as Nicias came forward, and beckoned with his

hand, commanding silence. The form of the general was bowed with years,

and his face lined with pain and sickness, but in his eye there was an

unwonted fire, and his tones rang clear and full, as he reminded his

hearers of the great cause for which they were to fight, and the mighty

interests which hung in the balance that day. "Men of Athens," he said,

"and you, our faithful allies, your lives, your liberty, and the future

of all who are dear to you, are in your own hands. If you would ever

see home again, you must resolve to conquer fortune, even against her

will, like seasoned veterans, inured to the perils and vicissitudes of

war. Hitherto we have generally got the better of the enemy on land and

we are now going to fight a land battle on the sea. As soon as you come

within reach of a Syracusan vessel, fling your grappling-irons, and

hold her fast, until not a man is left alive to defend her deck. This

will be the task of the soldiers, whom I need not tell to do their

duty. And you, seamen of the Athenian fleet, be not dismayed because we

have forsaken our former tactics, but trust to the strong arms of the

fighting men. Remember, those of you who are not of Attic descent, how

long you have enjoyed the high privileges of Athenian citizens, and the

honour reflected on you by your connection with Athens.

"My last word shall be spoken to you, fellow-citizens, Athenians born

and bred. You know what you have to expect from the Syracusans, if this

last struggle should end in defeat. But consider further what will be

the fate of your friends at home. Their docks are empty, their walls

are stripped of defenders, and if you fail them, Syracuse will unite

with their old enemies, and bear them down. Here, where we stand, are

the army, the fleet, the city, and the great name of Athens; go, then,

and fight as you never fought before, for never yet had soldier such a

prize to win, and such a cause to defend."

When Nicias had concluded his stirring appeal, the embarkation of the

troops began. As the fatal moment drew nearer and nearer, the anxiety

and distress of the Athenian general became unbearable. Feeling that he

had not said enough, he hurried to and fro, addressing each captain

with an agony of supplication, and imploring him by every sacred

name,--his wife, his children, his country, and his country's gods,--to

play a man's part, forgetting all thoughts of self. Having exhausted

every topic of entreaty, and seen the last man on board, he turned

away, still unsatisfied, and addressed himself to the task of drawing

up the troops left under his command for the defence of the camp. These

were disposed along the shore in as long a line as possible, that they

might encourage those fighting on the sea by their presence, and lend

prompt help in case of need. Behind them, every point of outlook was

held by a throng of anxious spectators,--the sick, the maimed, and the

wounded,--every man who had strength to crawl from his bed, and watch

that last desperate struggle for liberty and home.

And now the Athenian admirals, Demosthenes, Menander, and Euthydemus,

raised the signal, and the great fight began. The foremost ships

succeeded in reaching the mouth of the Great Harbour, and began to

break through the barrier, when the whole Syracusan fleet closed in

upon them on all sides, and forced them back Then the battle became

general, and soon the two fleets were scattered over the whole surface

of the bay in little groups, and each group engaged in a wild and

furious melee. There was no attempt to manoeuvre, but ship encountered

ship; as accident brought them together, and advanced to the attack,

under a shower of javelins and arrows. Then followed the dull crash of

collision, and the fierce rush of the fighting-men, as they endeavoured

to board. Here and there could be seen knots of three or four triremes,

locked together with shattered hulls and broken oars, while the

soldiers on the decks strove for the mastery. Nearly two hundred

triremes, and some forty thousand men, were engaged in that tumultuous

fight; and the thunder of the oars, the crash of colliding triremes,

and the yells of the assailants, raised an uproar so tremendous that it

was impossible to hear the voice of command. All order and method was

lost, yet still they fought on, the Syracusans with a savage thirst for

vengeance, the Athenians with the fury of despair; and for a long time

the issue remained doubtful.

All this scene of havoc and carnage was witnessed by the whole

population of Syracuse, who thronged the walls, or stood in arms along

the shore, and followed every incident with breathless interest. But

above all among the Athenians left behind in the camp excitement was

strained to the point of anguish. Here the view was more restricted,

and each group of spectators had its attention fixed on some one of the

many encounters which were raging in different parts of the bay. Some

who saw their friends conquering, shouted with joy and triumph; some

shrieked in terror, as an Athenian ship went down; and others, when the

combat long wavered, rocked their bodies to and fro in an agony of

suspense. Thus at the same moment every shifting turn of battle,

victory and defeat, panic and rally, flight and pursuit, was mirrored

on those pale faces, and echoed in a thousand mingled cries.

But at length these discordant voices were united in one general note

of horror, as the whole Athenian fleet, or all that was left of it, was

seen making in headlong rout for the upper end of the bay, with the

victorious Syracusans pressing hard behind. Then most of those who were

watching from the shore were seized with uncontrollable terror, and

sought to hide themselves in holes and corners of the camp; while a

few, who were more stout-hearted, waded into the water, to save the

ships, or rushed to defend the walls on the land side. But for the

present the Syracusans were contented with their victory, and after

chasing the fugitive triremes as far as their defences, they wheeled

and rowed back across the Great Harbour, through floating corpses, and

the wrecks of more than seventy vessels. On their arrival at Syracuse

they were hailed with such a burst of enthusiasm as had rarely been

witnessed in any Greek city. The victory, indeed, had been dearly

bought, but it was well worth the cost, and the power of Athens had

sustained a blow from which it could never recover. But among all the

thronging hosts of Syracuse, who now gave themselves up to revel and

rejoicing, there was one man at least who knew that even now the danger

was not yet past. Forty thousand Athenian soldiers were still encamped

within sight of the walls, and if they were allowed to escape, they

might establish themselves in some friendly city, and begin the war

again. All this was strongly felt by Hermocrates, and he lost no time

in imparting his cares and anxieties to the responsible leaders. The

Athenians, he urged, would be almost certain to decamp during the

night: let a strong force be sent out at once from Syracuse, to occupy

all the roads, and cut off their retreat. The advice was good, but in

the present temper of the army it was felt to be impracticable. The

whole city had become a scene of riot and wassail, and if the order

were given to march, it was but too evident that not a man would obey.

Baffled in this direction, the keen-witted Syracusan hit upon another

plan, which he at once proceeded to carry into effect.

Hermocrates was not mistaken in his conjecture. The beaten and

dispirited Athenians had now but one thought,--to break up their camp

with all despatch, and make their escape by land. They had still sixty

triremes left, and Demosthenes proposed to make one more attempt to

force the entrance of the Great Harbour; but when his suggestion was

made known to the crews, they broke into open mutiny, and flatly

refused to go on board. The generals were therefore compelled to adopt

the only alternative, and it was resolved to set out on that very

night. But Fortune had not yet exhausted her malice against the hapless

Athenians. The order to strike camp had been issued, and the soldiers

were busy preparing for the march, when a party of horsemen rode up to

the Athenian outposts, and hailing the sentinels, said that they had a

message to Nicias from his friends in Syracuse. "Tell him," said the

spokesman of the party, "That he must not attempt to stir to-night, for

all the roads are held by strong detachments of the Syracusans. Let him

wait until he has organised his forces, for a hasty and disordered

flight is sure to end in disaster."

The message, of course, came from Hermocrates, who had contrived this

trick to delay the departure of the Athenians, until time had been

gained to occupy the passes on their route. That Nicias should have

fallen into the snare is not surprising, but it is less easy to explain

how Demosthenes and the other generals came to be deceived by so

transparent a fraud. Yet such was in fact the case; the insidious hint

was accepted as a piece of friendly advice, and the march was

postponed. For a whole day and night the Athenians still lingered on

the spot, and thus gave ample time for their enemies to draw the net

round them, and block every avenue to safety.

On the third day after the battle, the order was given to march. As the

great army formed into column, the full horror of their situation came

home to every heart. This, then, was the end of those grand dreams of

conquest with which they had sailed to Sicily two years before! On the

heights of Epipolae their walls and their fort was still standing, a

monument of failure and defeat. Each familiar landmark reminded them of

some fallen comrade, or some disastrous incident in the siege. If they

glanced towards the Great Harbour, they could see the victorious

Syracusans towing off the shattered hull of an Athenian trireme, the

last sad remnant of two great armaments. If they turned their thoughts

towards Athens and home, they found no comfort there; for their beloved

city was beset with enemies, and in themselves, beaten and broken as

they were, lay her chief hope of salvation. The past was all black with

calamity, and the future loomed terrible before them, threatening

captivity and death; and the present, in that last hour of parting, was

full of such sights and sounds of woe as might have stirred pity even

in the breasts of their enemies. Around them, the camp was strewn with

the unburied corpses of brothers, comrades and sons, and thousands more

were tossing on the waves, or flung up on the shores of the bay. And

while the neglect of that sacred duty pressed heavily on their

conscience, still more harrowing were the cries of the sick and

wounded, who clung round their knees, imploring to be taken with them,

and when the army began to move followed with tottering steps, until

they sank down exhausted, calling down the curse of heaven on the

retreating host. Such was the anguish of that moment, that it seemed as

if the whole population of some great city had been driven into exile,

and was seeking a new home in a distant soil.

In this dire extremity, when the strongest spirits were crushed with

misery, one voice was heard, which still spoke of hope. It was the

voice of Nicias, who, when all others faltered, rose to a pitch of

heroism which he had never shown before. Bowed as he was with care, and

wasted by disease, he braced himself with more than human energy, and

moved with light step from rank to rank, exhorting that stricken

multitude in words of power. "Comrades," he said, "even now there is no

need to despair. Others have been saved before now from calamities yet

deeper than ours. You see in what state I am, cast down from the summit

of human prosperity, and condemned, in my age and weakness, to share

the hardships of the humblest soldier among you,--I, who was ever

constant in the service of the gods, and punctual in the performance of

every social duty. Yet have I not lost faith in the righteousness of

heaven, nor should you give up all for lost, if by any act of yours you

have fallen under the scourge of divine vengeance. There is mercy, as

well as justice, among the gods, and we, in sinking thus low, have

become the proper objects of their compassion. Think too what firm

ground of confidence we have, in the shields and spears of so many

thousand warriors. There is no power in Sicily which can resist us,

either to prevent our coming or to shorten our stay. A few days march

will bring us to the country of the friendly Sicels, who have already

received notice of our approach. Once there, we can defy all attack,

and look forward to the time when we shall see our homes again, and

raise up the fallen power of Athens."

These and similar exhortations were repeated by Nicias again and again,

as the army moved slowly forwards up the valley of the Anapus, keeping

a westerly direction, towards the interior of the island. The troops

were formed in a hollow oblong, with the baggage animals and

camp-followers in the middle, and advanced in two divisions, Nicias

leading the van, and Demosthenes bringing up the rear. The vigilance

and activity of Nicias never relaxed for a moment. Careless of his many

infirmities and exalted rank, he passed incessantly up and down the

column, chiding the stragglers, and attending to the even trim of his

lines. On reaching the ford of the Anapus, they put to flight a

detachment of the enemy which was stationed there to oppose their

passage, and crossing the river, continued their march. But now the

real difficulties of the retreat began to appear. The Syracusans had no

intention of hazarding a pitched battle, but their horsemen and light

infantry hung upon the flanks of the Athenian army, making sudden

charges, and keeping up a constant discharge of javelins.

At nightfall the Athenians encamped under the shelter of a hill, some

five miles from their starting-point, and setting out at daybreak on

the following day, they pushed on with pain and difficulty, harassed at

every step by the galling attacks of the Syracusan troops. [Footnote:

Thucydides, with characteristic brevity, leaves this to be inferred

from the slowness of their progress.] A march of two miles and a half

brought them to a village, situated on a level plain, and here they

halted, wishing to supply themselves with food, and replenish their

water-vessels; for the country which they had now to traverse was a

desert, many miles in extent. Directly in their line of route there is

a narrow pass, when the road, on entering the hill country, drops sheer

down on either side into a deep ravine, and if they could once cross

this dangerous point they would be within reach of their allies, the

Sicels. But it was too late to proceed further that day, and while they

lay encamped in the village, the Syracusans hurried on in advance, and

blocked the pass by building a wall across the road. When the Athenians

resumed their march next morning, they were fiercely assailed by the

enemy's light horse and foot, who disputed every inch of ground, and at

last compelled them to fall back on the village where they had encamped

the night before. Provisions were now growing scanty, and every attempt

to leave their lines in search of plunder and forage was baffled by the

Syracusan horse.

On the fourth day they broke up their camp early, and by incessant

fighting succeeded in forcing their way as far as the pass. But all

further advance was prevented by the wall, and the dense masses of

infantry posted behind it. In vain the Athenians flung themselves again

and again upon the barrier. The troops stationed on the cliffs above

assailed them with a shower of missiles, and the solid phalanx of

hoplites repulsed every assault. Convinced at last that they were

wasting their strength to no purpose, they desisted, and retiring from

the wall halted at some distance for a brief interval of repose. During

this pause a storm of rain and thunder broke over their heads; and to

the weary and disheartened Athenians it seemed that the very elements

were in league with the enemy against them. But they had little time to

indulge in these melancholy reflections; for while they were resting,

Gylippus stole round to their rear, and prepared to cut off their

retreat by building a second wall across the pass. The news of this

imminent peril roused the Athenians from their stupor, and they marched

back with all speed along the road by which they had come. A picked

body of troops, sent on in advance, scattered the soldiers of Gylippus,

and the whole army then emerged from that death-trap, and encamped for

the night in the open plain.

The next day was spent in a last desperate effort to reach the hill

country. But being now on level ground, they were exposed on all sides

to the attacks of the Syracusan horse, who charged them incessantly,

and slew their men by hundreds, with hardly any loss to themselves. The

hopeless struggle continued until evening, and when the enemy drew off,

they left the Athenians not a mile from the place where they had passed

the previous night.

The original plan of the Athenian generals had been to penetrate the

highlands of Sicily to the west of Syracuse, and then strike across

country, until they reached the southern coast, in the direction of

Gela or Camarina. [Footnote: I have followed Holm, as cited in

Classen's Appendix (Third Edition, 1908).] But after two days' fighting

they had utterly failed to force an entrance into the mountains. Many

of their soldiers were wounded, the whole army was weakened by famine,

and a third attempt, made in such conditions, must inevitably end in

utter disaster. They resolved therefore to change their route, and

march southwards along the level coast country, until they could reach

the interior by following one of the numerous glens which pierce the

hills on this side of Sicily. Having come to this decision, they caused

a great number of fires to be lighted, and then gave the order for an

immediate start, hoping by this means to steal a march on the enemy.

This sudden flight through the darkness, in a hostile country, with

unknown terrors around them, caused something like a panic in the

Athenian army.

Nicias, however, who was still leading the van, contrived to keep his

men together, and made good progress; but the division under

Demosthenes fell into great disorder, and was left far behind. By

daybreak, both divisions [Footnote: See note, p. 242.] were within

sight of the sea, and entering the road which runs north and south

between Syracuse and Helorus, they continued their march towards the

river Cacyparis. Here they intended to turn off into the interior, with

the assistance of the Sicels, whom they expected to meet at the river.

But when they reached the ford of the Cacyparis, they found, instead of

the Sicels, a contingent of Syracusan troops, who were raising a wall

and palisade to block the passage. This obstruction was overcome

without much difficulty, and the whole Athenian army crossed the river

in safety. But the presence of the enemy on this side of Syracuse was

sufficient to deter them from taking the inland route by the valley of

the Cacyparis, and following the advice of their guides, they kept the

main road, and pressed on towards the south.

We must now return for a moment to the Syracusans under Gylippus, who

remained in their camp all night, not far from the pass which they had

so successfully defended. When they found in the morning that the

Athenians had departed, they were loud in their anger against Gylippus,

thinking that he had purposely suffered them to escape. The tracks of

so many thousands left no room for doubt as to the direction which the

fugitives had taken, and full of rage at the supposed treachery of

their leader, the Syracusans set out at once in hot pursuit. About

noon, on the sixth day of the retreat, they overtook the division of

Demosthenes, which had again lagged behind, and was marching slowly and

in disorder separated from the other half of the army by a distance of

six miles. Deprived of all hope of succour from his colleague, and

hemmed in on all sides by implacable enemies, Demosthenes called a

halt, and prepared to make his last stand. But his men, who from the

first had held the post of honour and danger, were fearfully reduced in

numbers, faint with famine, and exhausted by their long march. Driven

to and fro by the incessant charges of the Syracusan cavalry, they

could make no effective resistance, and at last they huddled pell-mell

into a walled enclosure, planted with olive-trees, and skirted on

either side by a road. They were now at the mercy of the Syracusans.

who surrounded the enclosure, and plied them with javelins, stones, and

arrows. After this butchery had continued for many hours, and the

survivors were brought to extremity by wounds, hunger, and thirst,

Gylippus sent a herald, who was the bearer of a remarkable message.

"Let those of you," he said, "who are natives of the islands subject to

Athens, come over to us, and you shall be free men." The offer was

addressed to the Greeks from the maritime cities of the Aegaean, who

might be supposed to be serving under compulsion, and it speaks volumes

for the loyalty and attachment of these men to Athens that most of them

refused to accept their freedom from the hands of her enemies. At

length, however, the whole army of Demosthenes, which had now dwindled

to six thousand men, was induced to surrender, on condition that none

of them should suffer death by violence, by bonds, or by starvation. At

the command of their captors they gave up the money which they had with

them, and the amount collected was so considerable that it filled the

hollows of four shields. When the capitulation was concluded,

Demosthenes, who had refused to make any terms for himself, drew his

sword, and attempted to take his own life; [Footnote: This interesting

fact is recorded by Plutarch and Pausanias, who copied it from the

contemporary Syracusan historian, Philistus.] but he was prevented from

effecting his purpose, and compelled to take his place in the mournful

procession which was now conducted by a strong guard along the road to

Syracuse.

Meanwhile the vanguard under Nicias, in total ignorance of the fate

which had befallen their comrades, marched steadily forwards, and

crossing the river Erineus, encamped for the night on a neighbouring

hill. Here they were found next morning by Gylippus and the Syracusans,

who informed them that Demosthenes and his men had surrendered, and

called upon them to do the same. Doubting their good faith, Nicias

obtained a truce, while he sent a horseman to ascertain the facts; and

even when he had learnt the truth from his messenger, he still tried to

parley, offering, in the name of the Athenian state, to defray the

whole cost of the war, and to give hostages for payment, at the rate of

an Athenian citizen for each talent, on condition that he and his men

were allowed to go. But the Syracusans were in no mood to listen to

such proposals, even if Nicias had spoken with full authority from

Athens. Bare life they would grant, but no more, and as the Athenians

refused to yield on these terms, they closed in upon them, and the

cruel, hopeless struggle began again, and continued until evening. The

wretched Athenians lay down supperless to snatch a few hours of rest,

intending, when all was quiet, to steal away under cover of darkness.

But when they rose at dead of night, and prepared to march, a shout

from the Syracusan camp warned them that the enemy were on the alert,

and they were compelled to return to their comfortless bivouac. Three

hundred, however, persisted in their intention, and forcing their way

through the Syracusan lines, gained for themselves a brief respite from

capture.

A whole week had now elapsed since the ill-fated army left its quarters

on the shores of the Great Harbour, and a few thousand starving and

weary men were all that remained of that great host. At dawn on the

eighth day Nicias gave the word to march, and they pressed on eagerly

towards the Assinarus, a stream of some size, with high and precipitous

banks, not more than two miles distant from their last halting-place.

They had still some faint hope of making good their escape, if they

could but cross the river. So they fought their way onwards, through

the swarming ranks of the Syracusans, who closed them in on all sides,

and thrust them together into one solid mass. There was life, there was

freedom a little way beyond,--or, if that hope proved futile, at any

rate there was water; and every fibre in their bodies ached and burned

with intolerable thirst. They reached the river; both banks were

already lined by the Syracusan horse, who had ridden on before, and

stood guarding the ford: but there was no stopping the wild rush of

that maddened, desperate multitude. Down the steep bank they plunged,

trampling on one another, and flung themselves open-mouthed upon the

stream, with one thought, one wish, overpowering every other

impulse,--to drink, and then to die. Some fell upon the spears of their

comrades, and perished, others slipped on the floating baggage, lost

their foothold, and were swept away by the flood. Yet still they poured

on, by hundreds and by thousands, drawn by the same longing, and thrust

downwards by the weight of those behind, until the whole riverbed was

filled with a huddled, surging mob of furious men, who drank, and still

drank, or fought with one another to reach the water. All this time an

iron storm of missiles rained down upon them from the thronging hosts

of their enemies on the banks above, while some, in the midst of their

draught, were pierced by the spears of the Peloponnesians, who followed

them into the river, and slew them at close quarters. The water grew

red with blood, and foul from the trampling of so many feet, but the

thirsty multitude still came crowding in, and drank with avidity of the

polluted stream.

For a long time the slaughter raged unchecked, and the river-bed was

choked with heaps of slain. A few, who escaped from the river, were

pursued and cut down by the Syracusan horse. Nicias had held out until

the last moment; but when he perceived that all was lost, his men being

powerless either to fight or fly, he made his way to Gylippus, and

implored him to stop the useless carnage. "I surrender myself," he

said, "to you and the Spartans. Do with me as you please, but put an

end to this butchery of defenceless men." Gylippus gave the necessary

order, and the word was passed round to kill no more, but take captive

those who survived. The order was obeyed, though slowly and with

reluctance, and the work of capture began. But few of those taken in

the river ever found their way into the public gaol, where Demosthenes

was now lying, with the six thousand who had surrendered on the day

before. For, as there had been no regular capitulation, large numbers

of the prisoners were secretly conveyed away by the Syracusans, who

afterwards sold them into slavery for their own profit. As for the

three hundred who had broken out of camp on the previous night, they

were presently brought in by a party of cavalry despatched in pursuit.

When the first transports of joy and triumph were over, an assembly was

called to decide on the fate of the two Athenian generals, and of those

state prisoners, some seven thousand in number, who were the sole

visible remnant of two great armies. Then arose a strange conflict of

motives. The first who put forward his claims was Gylippus, to whose

genius and energy the victorious issue of the struggle was mainly due.

As a reward for his services, he asked that Nicias and Demosthenes

should be left to his disposal, for he wished to have the honour of

carrying home with him these famous captains, one the greatest friend,

the other the greatest enemy of Sparta. But the general voice of the

assembly was strongly against him. Nothing but the blood of the two

principal offenders could satisfy the vengeance of the Syracusans, and

those who had intrigued with Nicias were anxious to put him out of the

way, in fear lest he should betray them. Moreover the Corinthian allies

of Syracuse, who for some reason had a special grudge against Nicias,

demanded his immediate execution. In vain Hermocrates pleaded the cause

of mercy, [Footnote: Plutarch, _Nicias_, c. 28.] and urged his

fellow-citizens to make a generous use of their victory. Sentence of

death was passed, and these two eminent Athenians, so different in

character and achievement, were united in their end.

Far worse was the doom pronounced on the six thousand men of

Demosthenes, and the thousand more who were brought to Syracuse after

the massacre at the Assinarus. They were condemned to confinement in

the stone quarries, deep pits surrounded by high walls of cliff, under

the south-eastern edge of Epipolae. Penned together in these roofless

dungeons, they were exposed to the fierce heat of the sun by day, and

to the bitter cold of the autumn nights, and having scarcely room to

move, they were unable to preserve common decency, or common

cleanliness. Many died of their wounds, or of the diseases engendered

by exposure, and their bodies were left unburied, a sight of horror and

a source of infection to the survivors. To these frightful miseries

were added a perpetual burning thirst, and the lingering torture of

slow starvation, for each man received as his daily allowance a poor

half pint of water, and a mere pittance of food, just enough to avoid

breaking the letter of the conditions which Demosthenes had made for

his troops. In this state they were left without relief for ten long

weeks; then all except the Athenians themselves, and their allies from

the Greek cities of Sicily and Italy, were taken out and sold as slaves.