Book II

ALKIBIADES

A Tale of the Great Athenian War

BY

CHARLES HAMILTON BROMBY

AUTHOR OF ‘FRANK LEWARD’

On the whole it may be doubted whether

there be a name of antiquity which comes

down with such a general charm as that of

Alkibiades. Why? I cannot answer. Who can?

LORD BYRON

CLIFTON

J. BAKER AND SON

LONDON

SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, HAMILTON, KENT & CO.

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PREFACE

MY husband, although he completed the composition of this work in his

lifetime, passed away before he had fully revised and prepared it for

the press, and the privilege of finally revising and editing it has,

consequently, devolved upon me. This, from the nature of the subject,

has been a task of some difficulty, but I have spared no pains to

accomplish it to the best of my ability.

As regards the orthography of Greek proper names, I have thought it

right to adhere, in most cases, to the views of my husband, who was

strongly of opinion that the original spelling of the words in Greek

should, so far as practicable, be followed and reproduced when they were

expressed in English characters.

I should also mention that his reasons for using the name of ‘the Great

Athenian War’ to describe the long contest usually known as ‘the

Peloponnesian War’ are given at the beginning of Chapter XXIX. at page

415 of the book.

It was a source of great delight to my husband to compose this story of

the life and times of Alkibiades, and it is hoped that many of its

readers will feel, at any rate in some degree, a like pleasure from

perusing it.

It will remind many who loved him of that brilliant talk, that refined

sensitiveness, that freshness of wit and humour which went to make up

his unusual personality.

MARY HAMILTON BROMBY.

ALL SAINTS’ VICARAGE, CLIFTON,

June, 1905.

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CONTENTS

BOOK I

CHAPTER PAGE

I. PERIKLES 1

II. SOKRATES 11

III. WAR 20

IV. THE PLAGUE AT ATHENS 35

V. ‘HYMEN O HYMENAIE’ 48

VI. KLEON’S BANQUET AND AFTER 60

VII. THE GREAT ASSEMBLY AT ATHENS 80

VIII. THE OLYMPIC GAMES 99

IX. FIGHTING IN ARKADIA 116

BOOK II

X. STRATEGOS 131

XI. MUTILATION OF THE STATUES 148

XII. SICILIAN EXPEDITION 156

XIII. RECALL AND REVENGE 169

XIV. A SYBARITE BANQUET 185

XV. CONDEMNED TO DEATH BY ATHENS 194

XVI. CONDEMNED TO DEATH BY SPARTA 214

XVII. FLIGHT TO MAGNESIA 229

XVIII. LIFE AT MAGNESIA 245

XIX. COMMANDER OF ATHENIAN FORCES AT SAMOS 259

XX. THE GREAT TEMPTATION 273

BOOK III

XXI. SEA FIGHTS AND IMPRISONMENT 292

XXII. ESCAPE AND SUCCESSES 314

XXIII. RETURN TO ATHENS 340

XXIV. ELEUSIS 358

XXV. DISAPPOINTMENT 368

XXVI. DEPOSED 381

XXVII. FIGHTING IN THRACE 391

XXVIII. AIGOS POTAMOI 405

XXIX. SURRENDER OF ATHENS 415

XXX. REFUGE IN PHRYGIA 425

XXXI. THE CLOSING SCENE 436

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ALKIBIADES

Book I

CHAPTER I

‘Whence can we know that which is to be?

Veiled in deep darkness is the life of mortals.’

ANACREON.

IN the early morning of a spring day in Greece, under a heaven of such a

blue as one can seldom see elsewhere, leaning from a window of one of

the noblest houses in Athens, looking sometimes down on the town that

lay beneath—awaking to its daily life of work and thought and

happiness—or gazing up at the pure sky, with the just finished Parthenon

standing out against it, imagine a boy of more than even Grecian beauty.

His light and slightly curling hair was blown back from a lofty

forehead, his clear-cut, perfect features, and the healthy hue upon his

cheeks, resembling the pure white marble of the temple and the glow of

the resplendent morning.

He was only a boy, but in his gaze was something more than ordinary

childish wonder. An earnest, wistful look, unsatisfied, told of a soul

which already sought to penetrate the things to be, the mystery of the

life that lay struggling in the city at his feet—a longing for wings

with which to rise beyond the arching canopy above him, if he could not

find an answer here.

His earliest recollection was of a high-born gentleman, a nobler man

than any he met now, a stalwart warrior, his father Kleinias. He could

just remember how that father used to tell him they traced their long

descent up through a line of heroes—through Ajax, son of Telamon, who

went with twelve great ships to the Siege of Troy, and was the

strongest, biggest of all the leaders there. How Telamon was son of

Aiakos, judge of those dark regions somewhere underground, in which the

simple-minded soldier still believed; and Aiakos, as all men knew, was

son of Zeus himself. Divine Achilles also, Peleus’s son, was of his

blood, for Peleus too was son of Aiakos.

One day his father, dressed in the heavy armour of the Grecian soldier,

had come to him, and having prayed the gods, with more than even his

usual deep reverence, to watch over and protect his son, and make him

worthy of their race, had left him sorrowfully, and the child heard soon

afterwards an unwonted stir in the great courtyard, and then the sound

as of tramping soldiers in the street, and the women took him to the

window, and he saw his father marching at the head of them.

So Kleinias, honoured of all men, went to fight for Athens, and his son

saw him again no more. He died by his general’s side at Koroneia, and

oftentimes in after-years the fervent words of his last prayer came

vividly before the mind of Alkibiades.

His mother Deinomaché at first took charge of him. She loved to tell him

of the great men through whom she was descended; how Amphiaraos, who

went with Jason on board the _Argo_ to seek the fleece of gold, was her

ancestor; of his son Alkmeon, who was married to the lovely nymph; and

of the great ruler Megakles and his grandson, who, years ago, was

crowned conqueror at the Pythian games.

Then of that Kleisthenes who raised the great temple at Delphi from its

ruins, turned out the tyrant race of the Peisistratidai, and made Athens

free for ever. How Megakles’ brother, Hippokrates, had two children: one

of them, also called Megakles, was her father; the other, wife of the

general Xanthippos, who beat the Persians at Mykale, was mother of the

splendid Perikles.

Perikles was by the will of Kleinias appointed tutor to his son. So

Alkibiades, when he was thirteen, was taken by his paidagogos, Zopyros,

from his mother’s house to live in the bustle and excitement of the

great establishment of Perikles.

The brave Deinomaché tried hard to shed no tear as her son went off.

‘Better,’ she said, ‘for you, my child, to learn to lead the people, or

to be a soldier like your father, with such a one as my kinsman

Perikles, than to waste your boyhood here amongst old women.’ And indeed

it did seem time some stronger will than his fond mother’s should rule

the ardent, sometimes overbearing, boy. If he was gentle to her at home,

he was impatient at the stupidity of other boys and of the guidance of

his feeble paidagogos, and apt to show a proud contempt for those he

held to be the meaner sort.

Yet he felt somewhat shy and sad at first when he found himself alone in

the great house of Perikles. His father’s house was large and strong,

and somewhat gloomy, but it was his home. The days and nights were quiet

there. Besides his mother’s female friends, and the slave women, and

Zopyros, he had seen little of the world. One day had passed in the big

empty house much in the same way as the day before it, and as he

supposed the next would do. Here, in the home of the chief man in

Athens—here was a change indeed. Hurry and bustle all day long. Busy

politicians coming at all hours with their cumbrous suggestions. Troops

of poor petitioners in want of something, and the important Generals and

Ministers of State, followed by their slaves, as at the appointed time

they came to take counsel with the chief on the affairs of Athens. Hurry

and scurry all day long, scarce a moment to himself, except on holidays,

could the great man get.

But when the busy day was done, and the boy was taken by Zopyros to the

chambers set apart for him, he heard the sound of the long revelry deep

into the night, the echo of the songs, the murmur of the merry

arguments, the coming and going of the well-dressed slaves as they bore

the costly viands, the garnished dishes, the golden vases of the old

Greek wine, to the table of their lord. And when the sound of revelry,

which often roused him from his sleep, was done, and the lights in his

part of the court were all gone out, the boy saw others twinkling in

that other part where Aspasia lived with all her women.

Aspasia! He had heard that name muttered in his mother’s house in such a

way he thought it must be something bad—a name his mother’s women hardly

dared to speak aloud. But here Aspasia, he found, when she deigned to

grace the board of Perikles, was treated as a queen. A queen to him,

indeed, she seemed to be—so fair, so tender, so generous; and as she

looked with kind affection on the growing boy, son of the worthy

Kleinias, who had left him the orphan pupil of her friend, he fell in

love with her at once, and thought he had never seen so beautiful a

lady.

‘What dost thou gaze at now, oh son of Kleinias?’ a strong voice said,

as a firm hand was placed upon his shoulder, ‘and what art thou thinking

of this bright holiday? Shall not thy paidagogos take thee to the

palaistra, or wilt thou rather stay and talk with me a while? It is

seldom I can see thee, child, or hear how thy books agree with thee.’

‘I was thinking, Perikles, of all the men and women there below. Art

thou indeed their governor, and canst thou do whate’er thou wilt with

them?’

‘Not I, forsooth, my boy; all citizens are free and equal by the laws of

Athens.’

‘Dost thou not make their laws?’

‘No; not so, indeed. They make their laws themselves. I do but counsel

them, and, as long as they permit, I see the laws are carried out, and

those are brought to trial and to punishment who may transgress them.’

‘But what dost thou mean by laws, Perikles?’

‘Whatsoever the people, met together in their Assembly, ordain, that we

all must do.’

‘Do! whether good or bad?’

‘No; good, of course. Dost thou suppose the people would decree that we

should do the bad?’

‘Has every state its own assembly, then?’

‘No; thou knowest well in Sparta, and in other states, a few great ones

make the laws, and not the people. Hast thou not yet learnt that at

school?’

‘Yes; I remember now. But what I want to know is this: supposing a few

great ones decree what all must do, wouldst thou call that a law?’

‘Of course I should, if the oligarchy was in power.’

‘But, then, suppose a tyrant, such as my mother told me my great

ancestor Kleisthenes of Sikyon was, one who took by force the power from

the people—if such a one makes a decree, is that a law?’

‘Yes, in truth it is, since it is made by one who has the power to make

it.’

‘But if a tyrant came and upset our laws, and then by force, and not by

trying to persuade the people, decreed that they must obey his will,

whether it was good or bad, would that be a law?’

‘No, child; that would be a breaking of the laws. I ought not to have

said the orders of a tyrant were laws, if they were made by force, and

not persuasion.’

‘If, then, some oligarchs should make decrees without consulting anyone,

would they be laws?’

‘Whoever makes decrees, if they be founded upon force, and not

persuasion, I call that rather an injustice than a law.’

‘Then, if the Athenians should impose their will upon the rich without

consulting them, would not that be an injustice too, or would it be a

law?’

‘Now, my good Alkibiades, go off and do thy exercises. Boys of your age

are always asking questions. Where is Zopyros?’

‘Oh, Zopyros is a fool! he tells me nothing; and when I wish to talk to

the wise men, who know the things I want to learn, he holds me back.

Other boys talk to them after their exercises at the palaistra, and why

not I?’

‘There is no reason why thou shouldst not, child.’

‘Thank you, Perikles! Thou art so busy all day long I can scarcely ever

speak of these things to thee. And then there is that funny-looking man

who always stares at me with his great eyes whenever I come near him;

and sometimes nearly all day long he follows me about, but never speaks

to me, and if I look at him Zopyros hurries me away. May I not talk to

him? Other boys do, and they say, though he looks so ugly, with his

small snub nose and big mouth, and his red face, if you hear him talk

you forget how ugly he is; and he tells them everything they want to

know, and they love to hear him talk.’

‘Dost thou mean Sokrates, the wisest man in Greece?—at least, so the

Oracle at Delphi said he was.’

‘Yes, it is Sokrates I mean. When I was wrestling yesterday with

Antiochos he sat and watched us all the time, but when I went to sit

upon the bench by him, he got up and went away. Zopyros calls him a

corrupter of the Grecian youths, and an evil-minded sophist, and I know

not what besides. Something tells me I should love to talk to him.’

‘Oh son of Kleinias! that Sokrates can tell thee more than I have ever

dreamt of, and when Perikles shall be no more, and all his care for

Athens, and all the battles he has fought and won, forgotten, that

strange philosopher will still be known, through all the ages that shall

come—not here in Greece alone, but far away in other lands which he, and

you, and I, know nothing of.’

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CHAPTER II

‘Chè in la mente m’è fitta, ...

La cara e buona imagine paterna

Di voi, quando nel mondo ad ora ad ora

M’ insegnavate come l’uom s’eterna.’

DANTE: _Inferno_, xv.

‘For in my mind is fixed ... your dear and good paternal form, when in

the world from time to time you taught me how man can make himself

eternal.’

A YEAR and a month have passed away. On a warm June afternoon, escaping

from Zopyros, the boy we attempted to describe in the last chapter had

wandered by himself a short way out of Athens. He was altered somewhat

since we saw him last. The high forehead had a more thoughtful air, the

look was more disdainful. The face, which had given one joy to look at

from its perfect purity, now, if very slightly, had become a little

sensual. But the wonder in the eyes was still the same—intensified. The

questioning and baffled look was there. The desire, the determination to

know, the strong will, shone out through them—‘If I don’t know now I

will some day.’

Wrapt in admiration as he lay upon the grass, gazing up to heaven and

the white clouds which passed slowly across the sky, half lulled to

sleep by the gentle gurgling of the Ilissos, in a waking dream, a voice

of deep and tender earnestness came suddenly upon his ears.

He half raised himself in haste, awakening from his reverie, and looking

round, saw Sokrates. A deep flush came on the boy’s face when he found

himself alone before the man he had so often, sometimes for fun indeed,

but often in earnest, declared that he would know. As he felt his gaze

fall full upon him—a look in which he saw love, pity, admiration, all

together—he blushed with a sense of happiness, and felt a consciousness

of shame he had never known before.

‘Oh, son of Kleinias and Deinomaché, have I thus come upon you wondering

when you will get wings to fly away beyond the clouds, and thinking you

can make them for yourself, and teach yourself to use them? Oh, foolish

Daidalos, have I not found out your thoughts?’

‘Indeed you have, Sokrates!’

‘And if I tell you how you may make these wings to grow, what will you

do for me?’

‘I think, Sokrates, I would do anything you asked.’

‘But if, when you have got your wings, you know not how to fly with

them: what then?’

‘I would do still more for you if you will teach me how to use them.’

‘But if the way to use them is so difficult it would take you days and

nights to learn it, and require you to give up many things you love, and

make you work and toil to get this learning, could you do all that,

think you?’

‘Indeed I do, if it be not too hard for me to learn.’

‘Which, now, gives you greater pleasure to look upon—Perikles’ marble

statue of Apollo, or a heap of dirt?’

‘Why, how could it be but to look upon the statue, Sokrates?’

‘And you would rather gaze on Aspasia’s face than on the wrinkled skin

of your old paidagogos?’

‘Of course I would.’

‘Then tell me, is it not because in Aspasia’s face and in the statue of

Apollo you see more beauty than in Zopyros or in the dirt?’

‘Yes, by Zeus, it is!’

‘And for the soldier—is it more beautiful in him to die fighting for his

country, or to run away and live?’

‘To die, of course. I would gladly do that, if that is all.’

‘And for the statesman—is it not more beautiful in him to endeavour to

persuade the people to make wise laws, and to induce them to do wise

things, though he knows they will not love him for it, but perhaps turn

on him, and thrust him from his power, and destroy him? Or is it better

to let them do those foolish things he knows they love, and will admire

him for advising, and so perhaps keep him a long time in power?’

‘By Herakles! the first seems to me to be more beautiful.’

‘And these things that seem beautiful, are they not good things too to

do?’

‘They must be good as well as beautiful. And if I had the power I would

make the people do what is wise and beautiful.’

‘Yet you have said the statesman who would rather lose his power than

persuade the people to the worse course was good.’

‘I know I did.’

‘Then the beautiful and the good are one?’

‘It seems so, Sokrates.’

‘Now I will tell thee, son of Kleinias, the wings you long for only come

to those who love and do the beautiful and good. And they give us pain

and trouble as they try to burst forth from the body. If you would get

these wings you must ever look upon the beautiful and do the good, and,

as I think your wish will be to lead the people, and be chief among

them, you should first learn what is the good, and how you may persuade

them to it—and this is difficult. To do this you must get Wisdom first

yourself, and she is hard to find. You must work at many toilsome

things. Like Herakles, you must go through many labours, and give up

much of what seems pleasant to you now, and be content at last if, after

all this trouble, the foolish people turn you out of power, and banish

you from Athens, and perhaps sentence you to death as a reward for all

your pains.’

‘Oh Sokrates, these things seem hard you tell me of. Is there no other

way?’

‘Yes, you can flatter and cajole them—you can tell them to make war when

you see the war spirit swarming like a swarm of bees among them, though

you know it is not for their good, and will end only in a disgraceful

peace; you can advise them to ally themselves with states they happen to

be fond of, though you know that others are the true friends of Athens.

Then will the changing people love you, and look upon you as a wise

counsellor, and for some time, perhaps, you will be chief man in

Athens.’

The boy had risen up, and the two were walking by the river-side towards

the town, a cloudy look of disappointment on the young one’s face.

‘Now I will ask you one thing more, Sokrates—a thing I have often

thought about, but never spoken it to anyone. If I could get the wings

you tell me can only be got by pain and suffering, and by giving up the

things that I care most about, what would they do for me when I had got

them?’

‘Did you not say you longed to rise above the earth, and see the things

beyond the sky? When I came to you were you not feeling tired of the

earth, and yearning some day to reach the dwellings of the gods?’

‘Yes, Sokrates, there it is, and this is what I mean. Who are these gods

really, and where in heaven do they dwell? My teachers tell me of Zeus,

father of Aiakos, and I am of the race of Aiakos. But they cannot tell

me where he is, nor the old gods before him. And yet they were immortal

too. I often wonder whither they are gone. Poems of Homer that I love to

read and hear recited say Zeus dwells on Mount Olympos; why cannot men

go there and find him, and see the banquets of the gods? I think these

things be but idle tales, and only Homer’s poetry, before men had our

wisdom. And if Athene really lives in the Parthenon, why cannot I see

her? Where are the great gods, Sokrates?’

‘They dwell not in the clouds, nor on Olympos’ top, lovely son of

Kleinias! That was, but Homer’s image. They dwell around us, and within

us, all day long. And when you feel the strong desire to find them out,

and a yearning of your soul to see and know the gods, it is the gods

themselves within you struggling against your lower passions, striving

to give you wings with which to fly above your small desires.’

‘Oh, oh, oh! hah, hah, hah! So have we found you, Sokrates, alone with

Alkibiades. And has your daimôn thus at length permitted you to speak to

him, or is it that only now for the first time you have found an

opportunity?’

‘Hush, Kritias and Sikias, hush! See how you have angered Alkibiades,

and sent him off blushing and frowning in a rage.’

‘Oh, wisest of the Greeks, seek not to make it seem it was our coming

that has angered Alkibiades. What were you telling him when we came up

and interrupted you? We have been looking for you all the afternoon.

Hippokrates has a great feast to-night. Harmonidas of Skios will be

there, and a new flute-player from Delos, and we know not who

besides—but all the greatest wits in Athens. He tells us to bid you to

his house.’

‘Oh, Sikias! I have feasted here already, and at a finer feast than your

Hippokrates can make. But tell me, Kritias, or you, Sikias, son of

Sikias, would not a feast of thistles seem more sumptuous to an ass than

all the dainties of Hippokrates?’

‘Doubtless it would, Sokrates.’

‘And the harsh croaking of a frog, does not that seem more melodious to

him than the flute-playing of Harmonidas?’

‘Perhaps it does. Why do you ask such questions?’

‘But one more. Tell me, Kritias, to the male frog does not his female

seem more beautiful than the face and form of Alkibiades?’

‘I believe it does, Sokrates.’

‘Then are these things really beautiful, or do they only seem so

according to the eyes with which we look, or the ears we listen to the

sounds withal?’

‘I should say, Sokrates, to the frog the ugly female seems more

beautiful, because he is a frog; as to the ass, the thistle seems the

better fare, because of his dull bestiality.’

‘Just so, Kritias! To the dull asses who appear to us as men the

converse of the soul with soul will ever seem a fitting theme for jest

and ridicule.’

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CHAPTER III

‘Vivere, Lucili, militare est.’—SENECA.

DURING the fifty years which immediately preceded the period at which we

now arrive Athens had risen from a level little higher than that of many

of her neighbour towns to be the chief, the queen, of Hellas. Through an

undiscoverable something in her people, through an innate power lying

hid within her, through a succession of great men to lead her, through

hard work and self-sacrifice, she had shot ahead of all her rivals. And

while boundless enterprise, which sent her merchant vessels beyond

Ionian and Aigaian Seas, enriched her coffers, she was protected seaward

by a navy which had become a match for all the other Grecian states

together, and landward by a solid force of soldiers, each of them a

self-relying, self-governing citizen, believing the fate of home

depended on his own peculiar strength, courage, and obedience; and all

this compact mass by sea and land was led by Generals not unworthy of

the warriors they commanded.

So Athens was become the head of numerous allied, almost dependent,

towns and tributary states, whose help she could call upon at need,

whose tribute flowed a constant stream to swell her treasury. And all

the time that this material prosperity had been increasing, her

intellectual, her artistic growth had been as wonderful. It is generally

noticed that only in the decline of nations an æsthetic, or subtle,

sense of beauty is obtained, and arts are seen to flourish. So true has

this been found in other states and peoples that from the one the other

may often be inferred. Was this so with Athens? Had not her arts grown

with her growth, and flourished in their full perfection as she grew?

Was it not peculiar to Athens that they had not to wait until she was

decrepit? However this may be, we find that a small town, as it seems to

us in our days of unwieldy cities, centres of overpeopled provinces, a

fifth-rate municipality, with a population, even at its highest, not

much greater than that of many a modern watering-place, had bred amongst

her citizens the purest taste, and highest genius, that marks a people

as superior to ordinary men. And not in some only of the higher

occupations of the mind was she ahead of others: she excelled in all.

Her sculptors, her painters, her architects, her orators, her

tragedians, her comedians, her statesmen, her philosophers, at that time

were the marvel of the world, as it seems they will remain that marvel

for all time to come.

If it is hard to realize the pre-eminence of Athens in genius, who

amongst us hath an imagination large enough to realize her outward show?

Who is so vain as to attempt to picture it to others?

The city was placed just near enough to the sea to catch its breezes and

the zest of life sea-breezes bring with them, under a sky hung higher

overhead than ours in the North appears to be; her streets a maze of

beauty with innumerable gold and marble statues wrought by the finest

sculptors that the world has seen; her temples, public halls and

colonnades at noontide giving shade, at evening shelter, at all times

free to all; her groves and gardens perfumed by the rich scent of

orange-trees and gayest flowers, beautiful by day and perhaps more

lovely still on moonlit nights. And overshadowing was seen from every

point of view the towering Akropolis, where the maiden goddess, sprung

from the brain of Zeus, emblem and patroness of wisdom, her calm brow

half covered by her Grecian helmet, her mighty spear in hand, stood

guard over her beloved city, its silent sentinel.

But then the thronging concourse in the streets, the busy markets,

workshops, arsenals! If outward Athens was chaste classic quietude, what

a bustling stream of life she did contain! She had just reached the

zenith of her day—everything was prosperous. Her rival states had been

left far behind. The league of Delos, counterplot to the Peloponnesian

confederacy, had placed Athens at its head, and Perikles was still in

power.

Whenever a people has by self-restraint and long determined toil,

patience, and courage, raised itself to wealth and greatness, the old

and simple thoughts and ways soon begin to seem too small for them, the

frugal practices of their forefathers all too poor. So life at Athens in

the heyday of her splendour was very pleasant.

It was at this time that the son of Kleinias—the noble, duty-loving

Kleinias, who kept aloof from politics, and let his abler comrades rule,

while he was happy to obey the laws which others made, and give his

strength and substance and, at last, his life for Athens—it was at this

time the son of Kleinias approached the dawn of early manhood. Gifted

with a greater power to enjoy the sensuous pleasures of the world than

most others have been, he had a larger intellect to understand, a

stronger will with which to keep others in subjection. He had, too, a

loftier ambition, and every apparent means to gratify his pride.

By accident he had been placed in the highest rank among the Athenians,

if we can speak of rank where all are equal. It was not the vulgar rank

which in our modern societies is marked by tinkling titles, but a

position willingly conceded to the descendants of a line of heroes,

sprung originally, as men believed, from the gods themselves.

His friends, his relations, were of the most powerful amongst the

citizens. The chief man in Athens was the guardian to whose care his

father had entrusted him. Scion of a line of frugal folk, whose wealth

had long accumulated, he had enormous riches, and owned a vast and

fertile territory. Thus he reached the golden age when every sense is

keenest, when almost every experience brings a new delight, and each

pulsation is a pleasure—an age we afterwards look back upon with fond

regret, not quite unmixed with pride, and which we sadly recognise we

shall never see again.

Small wonder, then, if Alkibiades threw himself without restraint into a

whirl of pleasure. Vague longings of his boyhood were, if not forgotten,

driven out of sight. The earnest hope of something higher lay buried

underneath the intense enjoyment of the present.

He had seen little of the strange philosopher since they met, apparently

by chance, on a sunny afternoon by the Ilissos. Sokrates was not a

Puritan. He could make allowances. But he saw too plainly what the

effect would be of constant excess and dissipation upon a mind like that

of Alkibiades. He held aloof. He said his daimôn, that ever-present

monitor, which told him what to do, and what to leave alone, prevented

him. Alkibiades had many friends. Besides the sons of Perikles and other

relatives of his own age with whom he associated, there were an

abundance of parasites in Athens to pander to his wishes. He had his

studies, too. These for the most part were in the military schools.

Through his wealth he was bound, by the law of Athens, to serve as a

knight in the cavalry of the Athenian army, so much of his time was

taken up in learning the art of war and military tactics. If his

ambition to excel in oratory, when he should be old enough to take his

place upon the bema, in the great Assembly of the people, led him

sometimes to the house of Protagoras, and to other Sophists, it was

rather to learn the tricks of a quibbling debate than to gain a

knowledge of that philosophy the Sophists pretended they were able to

impart.

But all such pleasant things must have an end. The serene sky became

overcast. Sparta, fearing for her independence, and encouraged by the

Delphic oracle, determined to put her ‘whole strength into a war’ with

Athens. Korinth was intriguing with the other states against her. Towns

and islands where oligarchies ruled hated the democratic city, and

joined in a confederacy against her.

The year 432 B.C. is ever to be remembered as the beginning of the long

and tedious war. Potidaia, a Korinthian colony, on the Chalkidian coast,

and subject to Athens, was encouraged by both Sparta and Korinth to rise

against her suzerain.

In the beginning of this year an expedition was sent out by Athens,

under Archestratos, with orders to act peaceably, if possible, and to

bring back these refractory subjects at Potidaia rather by persuasion

than by actual hostilities. Archestratos, finding peaceful overtures

were of no avail, and his force too small to coerce the revolted town,

sailed north, and made an attempt against the Makedonians, and met with

some success there, while another larger army was prepared at Athens.

Here, then, was an opportunity for Alkibiades. He had not yet completed

his twentieth year. By the law which regulated the military service of

the Athenian citizens, youths from eighteen to twenty, though bound to

serve, could not be called upon to leave their country; they with the

old men formed a guard to protect the city and the frontiers. But

Alkibiades, like other less fortunate young men, was burning with

military excitement, and with the full force of his strong will he

determined to go upon that expedition.

When this busy schwärmerei is in the air it is wonderful how infectious

it becomes. The call to arms resounded on all sides. Painting and

sculpture were neglected. Sophistic quibbling was forgotten. Pursuit of

pleasure for a time was laid aside. Luxurious banquets, lasting from

evening far into the night, went out of fashion. The music heard was not

the wailing of the Lydian flutes, but the trumpet calling to warlike

exercise. All the world, though it knew it not, was preparing for a war

the end and dismal consequence of which was to be terrible to Athens.

With flying pennants, with brave huzzas, and gaily-decked triremes, the

force set out for Potidaia. Alkibiades had got leave to go. As cavalry

would be of little use, at what the generals saw would most likely be a

lengthy siege, none of the golden youths could go as knights. So many of

them stayed at home. The son of Kleinias volunteered as an ordinary

hoplite, or heavy-armed foot-soldier. And we can well imagine the pride,

the joy, with which this scion of a stock like his would stand, with all

his heavy armour on, upon the prow of the great ship moving grandly out

to sea, as with its threefold banks of oars it breasted the Aigaian.

What thoughts! what hopes! what exaltation! His late excesses had been

but little more than youthful folly, and not much really cared for. Now

the descendant of Homeric heroes felt himself heroic. Even before the

Trojan War an ancestor of his had been in the mysterious strange voyage

with Jason and the _Argo_, when all the adventurous of the time took

part in that immortal voyage to Kolchis. He would not prove unworthy of

his sires; he would rival, and perhaps surpass, them. He would leave

behind him a fame which should astonish men for ever.

The Athenian army, with their allies, under the general Kallias, son of

Kalliades, in forty ships of war, sailed up the coast as far as

Makedonia, and there joining the army under Archestratos that had set

out some time before, and coasting down the Shemaic Gulf, they landed

near Beroia. Then, after three days’ marching along the shore, they

encamped not far from Potidaia, and watched the movements of the enemy.

While the army under Kallias were joining forces with Archestratos, the

Korinthians had sent a strong detachment, under Aristeus, to help the

Potidaians, and thus the Athenians, somewhat unexpectedly, found

themselves confronted with Korinthians, as well as Potidaians and their

Olynthian and Makedonian allies. Aristeus was made commander-in-chief of

this formidable host. He placed the main body of his army at the

entrance to the isthmus on which Potidaia stands, and posted the

Makedonians beneath the walls of Olynthos, in position to attack the

enemy in the rear on their first forward movement.

Kallias, seeing this manœuvre, sent some of his allies against the

Makedonians, and gave the signal to the main body to advance.

At the first onset Aristeus, with his left wing, drove back the Athenian

right, and followed them too far as they retreated. The Athenian left

wing and centre, in which was Alkibiades, raising their loud shout to

the god of war, came on in splendid style against the Korinthian right.

Then Greek indeed joined Greek, and fought with more ferocious hatred in

their hearts than they had ever felt against a common foe, when,

fighting side by side, they had sent the Persian home again.

Modern warfare consists, for the most part, in well-drilled marksmen

shooting at a distant mass scarce visible, and in receiving leaden

pellets from an unseen enemy. The tug and tussle of the old engagements,

where man grappled with man, and the final victory depended more on the

individual skill and courage of a few, is gone. Alkibiades rushed

headlong into the fray. It was his first experience of real war.

Forgetting everything in his excitement but the antagonists before him,

he found the noblest and strongest youths among the foe, and astonished

many on both sides as he felled opponents in his impetuosity.

The Athenian attack was stubbornly resisted. Kallias, the young general,

the pupil of Zeno, the philosopher of Elea, and a firm friend of

Alkibiades, was slain. Each foot of ground was fought for vigorously,

and fought for, sometimes, more than once, as now Athenian, now

Korinthian, gave way, and rocked and swayed together.

The son of Kleinias, blind to dangers round him, fearless of thrusts or

blows, strode in the front of the Athenian army. He had just felled a

stalwart Korinthian, when a blow upon his helmet, glancing down upon his

breastplate, brought him to his knees still fighting, till, with loss of

blood, he bowed his head and fell prone upon the ground.

The battle raged around him as before. He heard the din of it

confusedly—the calling on the gods, the cries of rage, the clanking of

the swords and shields; no one seemed to notice him. Those who, just

now, wondered at his courage were too much engaged to see his fall. His

blood, although he knew it not, was pouring from his wound. A dim vision

of his past life came before him—his father’s parting words, his hopes,

his ambition; now all was over, ended at his first attempt to make a

famous name. The great gods had struck him down in his pride. He

recollected indistinctly his late excesses, and dread Aiakos, the Judge

of Hell, he had been used to jest about as his old ancestor in his

careless health and jollity; he trembled as he thought how soon he was

to meet him. And then a sweet remembrance swam before his darkening eyes

of a sunny afternoon by the Ilissos, and the pleasant voice and kindly

words of that strange friend of his came back to him, like far-off music

in his ears; then darkness, and then—nothing.

Presently a sound as of the same voice came over him again. That which

had been indistinct and dreamy was now real and clear. His eyes opened,

and he saw Sokrates striding across him, his big eyes shining with a

rage which made them look almost beautiful; the ungraceful body trembled

with a god-like energy, his whole countenance glowed as if inspired.

With a blow he had brought to the ground a Potidaian, who, taking

advantage of the young man’s helplessness, was about to slay him with

his sword.

The Athenian army, everywhere victorious, chased the enemy into

Potidaia, and left the young hoplite and the philosopher behind amongst

the dead and dying. Neither of them spoke: one was too weak, the other

only stood and watched him.

When some of their side returned, Alkibiades was taken to his tent, and

his wound was dressed. Youth, vigour, and relenting Zeus soon did the

rest.

Amidst rejoicing and loud hymns of triumph to the God of War, with which

the Athenians celebrated their success, the generals deliberated,

according to their wont, to whom the prize of valour should be given.

They decided on the favourite Alkibiades, already celebrated for his

wealth and beauty and now made famous by his prowess. Alkibiades

refused, and with true generosity declared that Sokrates, the saviour of

his life, deserved it more than he did. But the generals cared little

for the philosopher, so Alkibiades was afterwards crowned with laurel

and invested with a splendid suit of armour before the assembled host,

as hero of the victorious day.

Meanwhile he was not ungrateful. He had made Sokrates come back with him

and share his tent as long as he remained in the besieging camp. His

wound, though quickly healing, left behind it a sense of lassitude he

had never felt before. He had time to study the strange character, and

many an occasion to marvel at the curious man who was living with him in

the close confines of a soldier’s tent. He loved to gaze on the

grotesque figure, and listen to his words, which had about them a charm

unspeakable, and carried all away who listened to them.

Sometimes Sokrates remained lost in thought for hours—all the whole day

together—undisturbed by the tumult of the camp, or by the wit and frolic

of the younger men who thronged the tent. But Alkibiades cared less than

heretofore for the gay society of his companions. He would often rather

sit and learn, answering the perpetual questionings by which the sage,

humblest of men himself, would show how ignorant men are, how puffed up

only by conceit of knowledge, how appearances are taken by them for

realities, how even those who pass for the wisest of mankind, when

brought to book, give but the poorest explanation of the simplest

things, how those only are truly wise who know their utter, necessary

ignorance.

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CHAPTER IV

‘Alas! unnumbered sorrows do I suffer

A plague is on all our host, nor can thought find any weapon of

defence.

One on another mayest thou see urged on like bird on well-plumed wing,

swifter than the resistless flame, to the shore of the god of

darkness.

By countless deaths the city is perishing; her sons death-bearing lie

unpitied upon the ground, with none to make lament for them.’

SOPHOCLES: _Oid. Tyran._

THROUGH all that winter, and long after it, the siege of Potidaia

lasted. Sokrates showed superhuman power of endurance, keeping his watch

by night barefoot amid the ice and snow, in his only dress, which he

wore summer and winter, in heat and cold alike, in the pelting rain and

bitter winds. He showed endurance, too, in striving to win his scholar

to a higher life, to nobler aims.

But Alkibiades in time grew tired of the siege. It was very well to do

heroic deeds before the eyes of men, but to sit down before a stubborn

town, month after month to go through the same tedious duties, without a

chance of honour or distinction, that was a different thing. The siege

got wearisome. With returning health and strength he began to long for

the pleasures he had left behind at Athens. Moreover, the pest broke out

amongst the besiegers and besieged. So he got leave, like many others,

to return.

When he got back an awful change had come over the gay city. He had left

it in its glory, triumphing in bravery and beauty; he came back to find

it a place of mourning. The pest had come there, too, making havoc among

the citizens, whose numbers were swelled by almost the whole rural

population of the state. For the Lakedaimônian invasion of Attika had

forced the country people into Athens, where they lay huddled up

together in miserable hovels, in temples, in the porticos and

colonnades. And the plague raged amongst them.

Men and women, old and young, and helpless children, all alike—the

plague spared none of them. Rich and poor were doomed to the same

fearful suffering. A burning torture took possession of their bodies,

and defied all remedies. Physicians’ skill was of no avail. The plague

demon baffled every precaution. Those who could get away left Athens,

and many of them fell victims as they went, unhelped, uncared for by

panic-stricken friends. In the town those who were forced to stay sat

down in grim despair, waiting their turn for torture and for death.

A black veil hung over the gorgeous city. Like a faded beauty who long

ago had decked herself out with ornaments and shone resplendent in her

youth, the ornaments were there, the beauty gone—it seemed for ever. The

dismayed people, who were stricken with a fever the like of which had

not been seen before, and which has passed, as the Greeks themselves

have passed, from earth, wallowed in their pain. They rushed to pools,

to streams, to fountains, and in delirious feebleness fell headlong in

and died. The waters thus polluted were a source for propagating the

disease. The very water, gift of purity and cleanliness, became the

channel of a loathsome death. An internal fire ate out the very core of

life. A scream for drink, more drink, to quench the unextinguishable

flame, which burnt from head to foot, through all the limbs, but most

through the more vital parts, was heard above the wails and groans—was

heard unheeded.

Even when recovery was possible the terrible phenomenon was seen of

human beings who had lost all memory of everything that had gone before,

all remembrance of their friends, all consciousness of the continuity of

their existence, of their own names.

The birds and beasts that prey on human bodies and thrive on such

occasions disappeared, either through disgust and satiety, or killed by

the infection. Even the women, tender nurses in distress, who know so

well how to soothe our pains, when we can scarce tell what we want,

whose constant care will watch and help when we are powerless—even women

fled in horror from those stricken by that plague. There was none to

help; there was little aid that could do any good. Nemesis, for all the

too great pride and joy of Athens, poured forth the vials of her

retribution.

Alkibiades had, indeed, an opportunity to show how he had profited by

the lessons of his friend. He had no fear and great generosity. Among

the few who rose above the degrading influence of the terrible contagion

no one was more active or persevering than was he. Undaunted by the

weight of woe with which he had to deal, he attacked the unseen enemy as

resolutely as he had fought Korinthians at Potidaia. While most men

slunk away in dread, and others, despairing of their lives, sought to

enjoy the short time left them in unsatisfying dissipation, and affected

to ignore the danger by an assumed carelessness or noisy drunkenness, he

was unwearied in the aid he brought to the panic-stricken people. The

rich who had not fled barricaded themselves in their large houses,

hoping thus to escape the plague, and many expired there alone. It was

not to these he came, but to the poor, who had no palaces in which to

stand a siege, to the poor, crowded together in their small tenements,

lying helpless on their straw.

The poorer Athenian was accustomed to spend the greater part of his day

out of doors. As soon as he rose in the early morning, putting on his

simple dress, he was out in the fresh air. His work was done there;

there he enjoyed his mid-day rest. If he was summoned to take part in

the Assembly of the state, it was in the open air he heard and voted. If

he had to try a fellow citizen, it was in a court roofed only by the

canopy of heaven. Or when, his work and duty done, he assisted at a play

of Sophokles or the broad satire of a comedy, it was under the blue sky

he listened and applauded.

It was in unaccustomed confinement that these Greeks lay dying when

Alkibiades came, bringing consolation and the sunlight of his radiant

happiness. How many in after-years, in the conflict of party strife,

when it was their turn to vote for or against him, remembered the

god-like youth, who in the flush of strength, and victory, and beauty,

had come like Hermes to them in their agony?

When he returned from Potidaia, he found other troubles disturbing the

democratic city. The people, dissatisfied with the conduct of the war,

and maddened by the plague, turned on their best friend. Perikles, who

had subdued the oligarchs, had raised the people to power, had endowed

them with the privileges they enjoyed, and had for thirty years guided

the popular government of the state so wisely and so strongly that most

even of his oligarchic opponents were contented with his guidance, was

now the object of the people’s anger.

We can imagine the thoughts with which the old man came home from the

Assembly which decreed his degradation and his punishment. He had made

Athens what she was. He had guarded her from foes without, the people

from their foe within, ever ready to rob them of their rights. It was in

his mind that had first risen up the idea of a great Hellenic empire,

one confederation, which should include all the self-governing states

and towns of Greek origin, with Athens at its head. It had been his hope

to call together a pan-Hellenic congress, to consider the rights, the

wrongs, the divergent interests, of them all, that they might proceed

together, self-defended from barbarian attack, to higher intellectual

and ethic greatness, to even nobler efforts in their arts and in their

literature—a policy which, had he been allowed an opportunity to carry

it out unto its end, must have gone near to realize the great ideal of

his hopes, and would certainly have saved Athens and the whole of Greece

from the catastrophe which was now about to be unfolded.

It was as a symbol of imperial headship that he had caused Athens to be

decorated with the splendid monuments that arose within the city in his

time. And now, awakening from his dream of what she—what all

Greece—might have been, he found Athens threatened upon every side, and

himself marked by her people as the victim for their sacrifice.

Harder blows came on him nearer home. He had seen his old companions,

his colleagues, pass away. The plague bore off his only sister, then his

eldest son, and then his Paralos, his youngest, best beloved. As the old

man placed the funeral wreath upon that head, the emotion he had

mastered hitherto quite mastered him; he fell down, overwhelmed with

woe. The human mass which ruled in Athens, even they were touched at

that sad spectacle. The people recollected what he had done for them,

for Athens; they called their leader back to power as suddenly as they

had driven him away.

But Perikles was broken down. He felt his sun was setting. His

far-reaching plans had failed. He longed for peace and for silent

converse with his sorrow. Alkibiades, the bright, the rising sun, came

to his old friend and tutor, whose glory was departing, and, after much

persuasion, induced the old warrior and chief to return to lead the

people.

Once more he heard the shouts of gratulation as he raised a trembling

arm and swayed them as of old. Once more his eyes, grown dim with age

and grief, saw the vast sea of faces gazing at him as he kept the huge

concourse silent with his word. But the elasticity was gone. The heart

within him rose not as it had used to do. His day was done. Within

another year the greatest of Greek statesmen was taken, not reluctantly,

to his last resting-place. And the world, save for the undying works he

left behind him, went on as though he had not been.

Conflicting forces rose at once. Oligarchs and democrats, headed by

Nikias and Kleon, contended for the prize the dead leader had abandoned.

Nikias, representing the rich old families, and supported by them, was

of high birth and wealthy. He was timid, cautious, safe and

superstitious, narrow-minded, honest, and respectable.

Kleon was of the middle, trading class. Many of this sort, during the

last thirty years of prosperity, had become wealthy. He was the first

who presumed to bid for power. It is one of the strange phenomena of

nature that after pestilence comes great fecundity. This has often been

observed, especially after the plague which ravaged Europe in 1348 and

1349 of our era. The air is cleared, as it were, by the storm which has

passed over. Those who survive, too, get to themselves such courage they

begin to imagine they are exempt from ordinary dangers. They become rich

with the wealth of those who have died, and rejoice in a new and opulent

existence. At Athens life burst out anew in the fulness of enjoyment.

None knew how to enjoy it more than Alkibiades. We need not dwell upon

the life he led for the next few years. His mind, his ambition, was

expanding. He was nearing the age when he should take his share in the

government of the Athenian empire. He had enriched his mind with all the

knowledge of the Greeks at the highest period of their culture. Nature

had endowed him with a genius to discover the right course to take in

every emergency, as if by intuition; so that, apparently without effort,

he divined the course events would take. In him she joined courage and

resource with a circumspect solicitude seldom found together with

promptness in action.

She had given him besides a body of so much strength and beauty, and

withal of so great grace, that sculptors, who, while he was a boy, had

realized at sight of him the face and form of Eros, God of Love, now

took him as their model when they strove to mould a Hermes, the wise,

quick, strong, radiant messenger of Heaven.

If we dare not linger on the life he led at this time, if we can only

speculate on some of the motives of his conduct, neither can we venture

to describe his outward form, the perfect oval of his face, the thickly

curling hair he allowed to grow so long, the large voluptuous eyes, now

gazing with half-closed indolence, now flashing with the latent fire

within, the faultless classic profile, the clean-cut nose, with nostrils

that would sometimes dilate and tremble with excitement, above a mouth

which often stayed half opened, careless in repose, and sometimes

withering in its contempt.

Can we wonder if, in the graphic language of the Greek historian, ‘he

was hunted by good women, as the hunter hunts his prey’? Ought we to be

hard in our judgment on him if, living before the world had yet been

taught a higher law, his life was not what we call virtuous? If we do

not pardon him, we can make excuses. We cannot but remember the

circumstances of his youth and bringing up in the house of Perikles and

Aspasia; the licence of affection unsanctioned by the marriage tie,

which even severe critics like Sokrates did not condemn. Of all this

liberty he took his fill. None so sought after as he, none sooner weary

of ordinary easy love. He astonished Athens by his erratic escapades. He

had all there at his command. That was not enough. Hearing of renowned

beauties far away, the difficulties of the pursuit lent enchantment to

the search. At one time we hear of him, in disguise, at Korinth, at

another at Abydos in the Hellespont, drawn thither only by rumour of the

beauty of Medontis.

So three years went by as in a wanton dream. As Perikles had for his

friend the learned and beautiful Aspasia, whose salon was frequented by

the wit and genius of Greece, so his pupil formed a strong attachment to

Timandra, and felt perhaps the truest love he ever felt for the fair

Athenian. She, like Aspasia, was of the class which society at that time

something more than tolerated. Doubtless she was fitter to become

companion of the life and work of such a man, the confidante of his

hopes and aspirations, than were the most part of the high-born Grecian

ladies. We shall see how faithfully, through all his ills, she followed

him unto the end. But the offspring of such alliances could not become

their fathers’ heirs, except by special legislation, so Alkibiades must

marry, and marry one of his own caste.

The rich and famous general Hipponikos, whose ancestors were among the

most famous mythic heroes of the Greeks, whose family were the

hereditary torch-bearers at the celebration of the Eleusinian mysteries,

had an only daughter, Hippareté, whom he loved devotedly, and who was to

share his wealth. Her hand was eagerly sought for by most of the young

men of old descent. The fact that she was coveted by many enhanced her

value in the eyes of Alkibiades. She whom so many were anxious to

possess was worth pursuing. He found in that pursuit an opportunity to

show how he could excel the other youthful heroes of the day in love as

well as war.

Her mother had been separated from Hipponikos by the odious law which

allowed a wife for little cause to change her husband for another—the

bane and fruitful source of evil in the old societies. Released from her

first husband, she had married Perikles, and became the mother of some

of his children; but growing jealous of Aspasia, she was divorced from

Perikles, and joined herself in wedlock to a third. It was the daughter

of this woman and Hipponikos that Alkibiades wooed and won—perhaps too

easily.

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CHAPTER V

‘HYMEN O HYMENAIE’

IN the late autumn of 425 B.C., when the keen bright winter was just

beginning to give warning that he was coming soon, Alkibiades brought

his young bride home to his great house in the heart of Athens. First

came the bearer of the marriage torch, which had been lighted by

Deinomaché; then the chorus of youths and maidens dancing, and shouting

to the shrill reedy music of the double oboes their thrilling and

exulting cry, ‘Hymen O Hymenaie!’ then bride and bridegroom on the

wedding-car, drawn by four white horses of his breed that was to become

so famous.

A flight of steps led up to the wide portico, supported by six Ionic

columns, crowned by its sculptured tympanum, on this day hung with

garlands. The massive doors, covered with beaten bronze plates, were

opened as the festive band approached, and showed a troop of slaves,

young men and maidens, upon either side, awaiting the arrival of their

lord. The bridal procession entered the great courtyard, which had been

much changed and ornamented since the days of Kleinias. A colonnade of

sculptured columns now ran all round it; the walls were painted with

scenes from the Argonautic expedition by the young painter Mikôn. A

graceful fountain rose and fell in the centre of the court as they

passed through to the rooms beyond, painted for this occasion with

hymeneal subjects by Aristophôn. There the women had prepared the

nuptial couch.

Athens was astir that day. All the world knew Alkibiades, and had heard

many things of the riches and the ancestry of the daughter of

Hipponikos. Slaves and dependents, from the demesnes of either house,

followed in their train. Hipponikos was proud at having for his

son-in-law one who had proved his valour in the field, and bade fair by

his talents to become a leading man in Athens. The people lined the

streets to see the show, and cheered their favourite as he went by as

heartily as they applauded when the actors, in their great masks,

mouthed out licentious satires of him on the comic stage.

At the rich feast which Hipponikos gave, friends and relations of bride

and bridegroom, and most of the great men of the state, were present.

Kallias, the brother of the bride, of course was there, with his

philosopher Protagoras, and others of his loquacious Sophist friends,

and Sokrates, who never spoke a word. The banquet, gay and joyous, with

its great dishes of sesame cakes, lasted late, and then the bride bid

adieu to her old sire, and left her home of innocence and peace,

happiest of them all, unmindful of the troubles that were to come with

the new life.

She thought that she indeed had cause to be contented. She had gained

the bravest, cleverest, most splendid of all the Greeks. Even his

gallantries, of which her women told her, could not lessen the

admiration that she felt, and all these gallantries, excusable in him

till now, she knew he would abandon for the love of her. Had she not

cause to be contented?

And he, as the epithalamium he had written for her was sung outside

their chamber door by girls and boys, to the music of the harps and

flutes—he, tired with the day’s excitement, as he laid him down by her,

he too was happy, while Timandra—poor Timandra!—was almost forgot.

Lonely Timandra, who had given up all else for him, and loved him as

only such a one as she can love, in her fair Grecian villa—far from the

bustle of the town, she sat her down in dark despair and rage. The very

luxury with which he had surrounded her grew hateful to her. The garden

perfumes from the orange-trees, whose blossoms the late autumn winds had

not yet shaken off, grew sickly. The shaded seats, where they had sat on

summer nights, looked drear. The birds, which had so often sung to them

in the bright springtime, on quiet cloudless evenings, their songs of

love and endless happiness, were still. All, all, was desolate.

She had sometimes feared this end. And yet what fault was it of hers

that she was not descended from as long a line of ancestors as this

Hippareté? Was her rival any better for her trip to Samos, and all the

other childish myths about her family? Perhaps her own forefathers—who

could tell?—had been as great as that one’s. Her mother—and now she

almost wept—her kind, fond, virtuous mother, who had died hardly

forgiving her, she, at least, was better than that poor doll’s, with

three husbands living at one time. She was more beautiful, she knew,

than poor Hippareté, for he had often told her so; and she had wit and

learning, and was more skilled in every art than any woman in her time,

except, perhaps, Aspasia.

So the day passed with her. When the night came on, a maddening frenzy

seized her soul, till the chill morning dawned, and then an evil smile

crept over her disdainful mouth; she knew her time would come.

For a season Alkibiades became another man. He laid aside the flowing

Persian robe in which he loved to scandalize the sterner Greeks. The

long and curling locks, tokens of youth, were cut at last. His days

again were given to military exercise, and sometimes he would even seek

out Sokrates, and listen to his teaching. The faithful Sokrates had

never ceased to follow him through all his dissipation, had never ceased

to love him for his beauty and his understanding, nor ceased to mourn

for him as over a great soul departing.

As the spring drew on there was greater martial stir than ever in the

town of Athens. It was indeed a time for all who cared for her or wished

to make a name to brace themselves for action. Besides Korinthian,

Spartan, and other Doric enemies in the Peloponnesos, Boiotians to the

north, Megarians on the west, were threatening her. Now was the moment

come for struggle, if she meant to burst the toils that were closing

round about her.

Like Venice afterwards, and another island in the north, Athens found

her chief ally in the sea-waves. On the sea she still ruled despotic.

The sea was Athens’ true divinity, the highway of her commerce and her

armies, her protection from her enemies. To the sea, it was said, the

tribune in her Assembly turned as to a deity.[1]

Footnote 1:

The remains of it show this was not so.

A desultory warfare had been going on with varying success since the

victory at Potidaia. Kleon, who had succeeded to something of the

popularity and something of the political wisdom of Perikles, had, by a

lucky chance, increased his reputation by vanquishing the Spartans and

taking many of them prisoners at Sphakteria, when Nikias had refused to

go there.

To prevent and put a stop for ever to the frequent ravages of Attika by

Lakedaimôn, aided by Boiotian cavalry, it was determined to make a final

stand, and by a sudden incursion on Boiotia to gain so strong a position

within its borders that invasion thence should be impossible in future.

A levy was made of nearly all who could bear arms, and the largest

expedition ever yet sent out was ready to march, under Hippokrates, in

September, 424.

Sokrates served with the heavy-armed. Hipponikos was placed over a

portion of the force, while Alkibiades was foremost, gayest, best

equipped of all the knights.

He was enthusiastic for the war, but Hippareté was plunged in terror as

the time drew near for his departure; and, on the day before he left,

she gave birth, too early, to their first-born son. Hipponikos was

overjoyed at the event, doubled the large dowry he had given her, then

bade farewell to the beloved daughter he was not to see again, and

Alkibiades kissed tenderly the wife he had to part from in her weakness

and foreboding.

Whatever solicitude he may have felt at leaving his young wife at such a

time, it was soon forgotten as he rode off along the way the traveller

still takes who journeys from Athens to the ruined Delion. Nor did the

beauty of the road which goes through olive woods near home to the

mountain passes of Pentelikos and Parnes, on to Oropos, and so, by the

sea-shore, to where the temple of Apollo overhung, from its high rock,

the surging sea below, make much impression on him then.

When they arrived in the enemy’s country, three days were spent in

fortifying the temple and throwing up entrenchments. This point was of

great strategic value. If the Athenians could keep it, they would have a

fortress on the frontier of Boiotia, inside their neighbours’ territory,

whence so many invasions had of late years come upon them.

Hippokrates, having finished his entrenchments, and having placed there

a small force of foot and horse for the defence of the newly-acquired

fortress, ordered the main body to return to Attika. The light-armed

went first, and had got safely across the frontier before the

heavy-armed and the cavalry had left the temple. Hippokrates stayed

behind, for a time, at Delion. The hoplites and the cavalry, after a

rapid march, halted on the frontier, about a mile from Oropos. They were

about to start again, after a short rest, when, late in the afternoon, a

herald from Hippokrates galloped up in haste with orders to range

themselves at once in line of battle, for the forces of Boiotia and her

allies, twenty thousand men, fresh and eager for the fight, were coming

over the hills to fall upon them.

Hippokrates, who soon came up, had not eight thousand men, all told, to

meet this unexpected blow, and they were tired out with marching. The

general got them into some sort of order, and was addressing them,

pointing out the immense importance of gaining a foothold in Boiotia, to

stop the incursions the Spartans, with the help of the Theban cavalry,

were able continually to make upon the soil of Attika, when he was

interrupted by the war-cry of Boiotia, and the Boiotians and their

confederate forces were upon them.

The Athenians rushed to meet them. They were only eight men deep; the

Thebans were twenty-five. The shock was terrible. The Athenian right

wing, throwing itself on the Boiotian left, where the Thespians fought,

drove it back, and cut the Thespians to pieces. But they went too far,

and got involved with the deep columns of the enemy, and lost as many as

they slew.

On their left wing the Athenians were broken at the onset, and

retreated, overpowered by numbers. The centre and so much of the right

wing as could disengage themselves followed in good order. But as they

turned the hillside they saw the Boiotian cavalry, fifteen hundred

strong, charging down upon them. They broke and fled in all directions.

Some made their way back to Delion, others to the sea at Oropos; others,

struggling through the passes of Parnes, at last got home again to

Athens. The enemy, pursuing them, did fearful execution in their ranks.

Brave old Hipponikos was slain at the beginning of the rout while

endeavouring to rally his retreating men. From the hilly nature of the

ground where the main attack had been delivered, the small force of

cavalry, placed at each extremity of the Athenian line, had been unable

to give much help during the heat of the conflict. That division of the

horse posted on the left wing, where Alkibiades chafed at his compulsory

inaction, covered, as far as it could, the disorderly retreat. While

thus engaged, it was his good fortune to save the life of Sokrates, and

so repay the service his friend had rendered him seven years before at

Potidaia. He came upon him retiring with his face to the Boiotians as

calmly as if he had been combating some common error in the groves at

Athens. Misfortune ever made more manifest the greatness that was in

him. The rugged figure had a majesty about it as he bade defiance to the

foe. Death when threatened by his country’s enemies brought no more fear

to him than when at last it came to him in the cup of hemlock, by which

that country afterwards rewarded him.

The temple at Delion was soon afterwards retaken by the Boiotians, and

that disastrous campaign was ended. At the same time in Thrace the

Spartans, under Brasidas, were encouraging Athenian dependencies to

revolt. Through the negligence of the historian Thoukydides they were

able to take Amphipolis, one of the most important possessions of Athens

on the Thrakian coast, an event which became of curious importance in

deciding the future life of Alkibiades.

He had returned to Athens in less glorious circumstances than those in

which he had set out. Through no fault of his, he and the other knights

had been unable to do much. He was discontented. His wife received him

back with tears. He who was almost all to her had come back indeed, but

the brave old father, where was he? Her father had ever been her

constant friend, the dear companion of her childish days and early

womanhood. When his wife left him his daughter had become everything to

him. He lavished all his love on her, for the worthless Kallias deserved

and got but little. And he who gave it to her so ungrudgingly was gone.

She would never see that strong old tender face again. How could she

keep her tears from flowing—tears of grief, tears, too, of joy, as her

husband stood by her side once more?

Egoism, from which most men, even the best, suffer more or less, was not

a stranger in the breast of Alkibiades. He liked the blind devotion of

his wife, and would not have her show her grief for anyone when he was

there. He did not understand how much less worth her love for him must

be if she did not love her father with another and as great a love.

He grew weary of his life at home. Hippareté was rather dull. She was

weak and feeble, and spent most of her time attending to her child. His

absences from home grew longer and more frequent. When he came there she

met him with a grieved, sad smile. Silent reproaches drove him off

again.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

CHAPTER VI

‘And forth sche wente and made a vanysschynge,

* * * *

And hoom sche gooth anon the nexté weye.

This is theffect, ther nys namore to seye.’

CHAUCER: _Knight’s Tale_.

IT was towards the end of May, in the year 423, that Kleon gave his

celebrated banquet to his friends. His house was large and sumptuous

rather than beautiful. Βάναυσον is the word which best describes the

feast, for which ‘vulgarly profuse’ is our nearest equivalent. Not that

Kleon was altogether what we call a vulgar man. It may be doubted if

there was anything known in Greece at that time which we can exactly

qualify by the term ‘vulgarity.’ Yet his peculiarities had something

akin to that growth of vulgar profusion in later times which came to its

perfection in the rich outside society of later Rome, and has not yet

entirely disappeared.

Kleon was a man of considerable power. He had shown sound judgment and

natural military skill at Sphakteria, where, although unused to arms, he

struck the first blow at the military supremacy of Sparta, while, as a

politician, during the short time in which he took a leading part in the

guidance of the state, he proved himself to be one of the most sagacious

and far-sighted of Grecian statesmen.

True, he threw aside the old traditions of the Pnyx, the Athenian House

of Commons, as he threw aside his cloak, or let it fall ungracefully

from off his shoulders, as he tramped about the tribune. True, his

harangues there were not the stately orations of academic Athens. True,

he swelled his cheeks when he thundered out the living words which took

such hold upon the people, chiefly because they were the expressed

embodiment, the unconscious echo, of their own vague thoughts. Yet was

there something in his voice—a ring in it—which spake of genius more

than of vulgarity. And though his enemies could ridicule his speeches

afterwards, and demonstrate the errors in his arguments to small batches

of adherents in the Agora, few dare raise their voice to answer him in

the Assembly of the people.

He loved the large and splendid in his house and at his entertainments,

and there was plenty of the large and splendid at this feast. There was

also serious conversation. The times were critical. The two great states

of Greece felt a desire for peace. Athens had suffered terribly at

Delion, and since then some other of the Thrakian cities dependent upon

her had seized the opportunity to shake off her yoke.

But if Athens had suffered much, Sparta, on the whole, had suffered

more, and with less power to recuperate, for this is the weakness of an

exclusive people such as the Spartans were. Like the Patriciate of Rome,

they would admit no strangers to share their privileges. So if a

generation of her men were weakened, or, as happened sometimes,

well-nigh destroyed by war, she had to wait for another generation to

grow up to supply the loss. Not so at Athens. There the gaps made in her

ranks were constantly repaired by new-made citizens, who soon caught the

spirit of the old Athenian traditions.

Sparta no less than Athens wished for peace. But the treaty which had

been made for one year, now just expired, had hardly been concluded

before news came that Skione, a thriving town not far from Potidaia, had

thrown off her allegiance to Athens, and had invited Brasidas, the

Spartan commander in that part, who had taken Amphipolis, to come to

help her, and that Brasidas was assisting her in her revolt.

Now, the treaty had provided that both sides and their dependencies

should remain throughout the year as they were at the making of the

treaty. Sparta declared the revolt of Skione had taken place before the

treaty was concluded. Athens answered that to assist the Skionians was

to infringe the terms of the treaty, as at the making of it Skione was a

dependency of hers.

This questionable conduct of Sparta was the chief topic of conversation

at Kleon’s banquet. Then there was the loss of Amphipolis, which the

more warlike thought must be recovered at any cost. Some were for

moderation, most of the guests for war. Kleon, having sounded the

general feeling of his friends, was, on the whole, for war.

He spoke of the duty of all men, at any price, to save their country’s

honour and preserve the state’s integrity. He denounced the perfidy of

Sparta, and declared if Nikias, to whose negligence in confiding the

Thrakian colonies to the government of the money-making Thoukydides the

loss of Amphipolis was due—if Nikias feared to meet Brasidas in the

field, why, he would go himself and bring the Spartans back prisoners to

Athens, as he had done before, when Nikias shirked his duty at

Sphakteria.

Most of his guests noisily applauded him. A few were doubtful. They had

not much faith in the enterprise or ability of Nikias, who had already

been sent to the north to recover the lost Chalkidian towns, and had

returned with but little glory, yet they had still less confidence in

the military knowledge of Kleon; while all recognised in Brasidas one of

the greatest generals that Sparta had as yet produced. The poorer sort

were all for war. War hit their rich and aristocratic opponents most,

while the middle class often sucked no small advantage from a war.

Shining among them all was Alkibiades, gayest in wit, quickest in

repartee. He was looked upon by both parties as the coming man amongst

the younger men, and as one who must make his mark when, in a short

time, he would be of age to take his part in the Athenian Parliament.

But when the question of war was seriously discussed, he either affected

carelessness or professed a desire to hear his elders speak.

From the traditions of the family, from his education, he was on the

people’s side. Still, he was a knight, and very rich. His personal

friends were chiefly of the knightly order, and on the other side in

politics. They were nicer to associate with than democrats like Kleon

and his friends. They had been, too, his comrades, and had fought beside

him in the wars. Moreover, Sokrates, in whose wisdom he had great faith,

was for the oligarchic party.

Both sides were anxious to get hold of him. He was too wise to

compromise his future liberty. He had not yet determined on which side

the better chances of distinction lay, or, indeed, which side was

absolutely best for Athens. Kleon undoubtedly was the first man among

the democrats—it would be difficult to oust him from his position. On

the other hand, Nikias, though safe, was feeble and irresolute; there

were already many secret murmurs against him, even from among his own

party, both as a politician and a general.

When the feast and high debate were over, these were the thoughts which

strove together in his mind, as, after bidding Kleon and his fellow

guests good-night, he dismissed his slave and walked alone towards home.

Warm with wine, excited by the discussion he had heard, he wandered on,

thinking of his future course in life. Who was there to guide him? There

was Sokrates indeed, but Sokrates was all for Sparta and for peace.

Sokrates cared little for the oligarchic faction. Most of them, he said,

knew not how to govern themselves, or persuade each other on the

simplest questions; how could they govern others, or persuade the people

as to what was best for their most vital interests? He had little regard

for the oligarchs of Athens. But, anyhow, they were better than the mob.

They had more to lose. And even they, foolish as they were, even they

were more likely to go right in their opinions than the fickle populace,

with their wavering, half-formed wishes. Alkibiades knew the advice he

was sure to get from his old adviser. Then there was Hippareté, who,

like the other women of her rank, had been brought up in respectable

seclusion, knew scarcely anything beyond a few domestic duties, and

cared only for her husband and her child.

Lost in his thoughts, his steps took him unconsciously from the homeward

road, from the main streets, along a way they knew well, and which still

seemed as natural to him as that which led to the house of his

forefathers.

Descending the hill of the nymphs, where Kleon’s house stood, he made

towards the Agora. The moon was nearly at its full, the streets were

silent. It is difficult for us to realize a wide-spread city, gardens,

temples, porches, statues, lit at night only by the moon. The absence of

public lights at night, the scarceness of light in private houses after

sunset, accustomed the citizens, especially the poor, to rise at

earliest dawn, so as to make as much as possible of the daytime, and to

go to rest at an earlier hour than the inhabitants of our

gas-illuminated cities care to do.

He had met few people, when he found himself already beyond the Stoa

Poikile, where Mikôn’s paintings of Ajax and Kassandra showed plainly in

the moonlight, and the new statue of Hermes just finished by Nikeratos,

for which, as all men knew, that incomparable sculptor had taken the son

of Kleinias as his model. Then he passed through the Agora, the great

market-place of Athens, and by the Stoa Eleutheros, and on and on he

scarce knew where, he scarce cared to know for certain.

Skirting the Mouseion hill, the road led to the Ilissos. A young girl,

starting suddenly from behind the temple of Aphrodite, startled him; he

wondered at his weakness. She was soon out of sight. He turned the

corner by the Amazonian monument, and then, there by the river, there in

its pleasant garden, there it was before him, but long unvisited, the

pretty villa he had himself planned for Timandra.

The akanthos plants had grown since he saw them last; the jasmine, just

bursting into blossom, half hid the well-known door. These small things

stamped themselves upon his memory as he paused a moment and looked

round him, he knew not why; then he knocked nervously. The old slave he

had given her opened to him, and laid her finger on her lips. He crossed

the tiny atrium, entered the chamber painted in deep-red colours. The

lamp of curious workmanship, which he had brought from Lesbos, shed a

soft light upon the walls. A draped Hebe, cup in hand, was painted on

one wall, an undraped Ganymede upon the other, and leaning against the

pedestal of a statue of Eros stood Timandra.

She was gazing through the small portico out upon the orange-trees and

myrtles; across them shone the moon. Her golden hair was bound up in a

knot behind; the flowing robe hung down in graceful folds, and only half

concealed her figure. On the tripod table near her—the well-known tripod

table, with the three satyrs for its legs—lay rolls of writing: the

fifth book of the ‘Odyssey,’ and her favourite Anakreon in its purple

case. He walked up silently and placed his hand upon her. Without a sign

of wonder, she turned and looked full into his eyes. There was no

reproach, no astonishment, as she leant her head upon him.

‘I was expecting you,’ she said; ‘something told me you would come.’

They sat down on the couch, and then, all gaiety, she said how she had

often heard from Aspasia how busy he had been with his affairs. She had

but seldom been of late, however, to see Aspasia. She could not

understand how one who had been the friend of Perikles could take up

with a man like Lysicles, so burly and so common, whose talk was of his

oxen, and his thoughts no better than his talk.

And then she told how Sokrates had been to see her. ‘Extraordinary man!’

At first, she said, she wondered what he came for, he asked so many

curious questions—how she had gained the love of such a one as

Alkibiades, and many other things. And then she mimicked Sokrates, and

tried to imitate his eyes and mouth, till her fond lover stopped her.

‘And yet there was much wisdom in it all,’ she said; ‘and when he talked

of you and told me how you saved his life at Delion, he grew quite

eloquent. I thought I could have listened to him all day long.’

And so she prattled on, as though he had never left her, full of wit and

life and loveliness. The night was fresh and bright, and, as he sat

gazing at her once more, a feeling of contentment and delight stole over

him.

Three days he stayed with her, bound by the old chain of love. On the

fourth morning she told him he must go, and, after the slight morning

meal, she bade him farewell—‘for a time,’ she said, as bright and

cheerful as on the day when he came back to her; and he went somewhat

reluctantly away.

His thoughts were not the bravest as he drew near home. He invented many

poor excuses on the way—the busy times, the momentous questions, peace

or war—and Kleon had kept him, requiring his counsel. He forgot them all

when he knocked at his own door with a forced boldness. The porter

opened; he entered with assumed carelessness.

All was silent. There was a scared look upon the faces of the slaves—not

a sound except the splashing of the fountain as he crossed the

courtyard. He passed on to the inner rooms. The ancestral sacred fire

burnt upon the altar. No one appeared. He reached his wife’s room. No

one was there.

He searched the women’s rooms, and at last found old Amykla, whose

parents had been slaves of Deinomaché, who had nurtured him in childhood

and watched over him through all his boyhood; who would gladly have died

for him, and had received his wife with the same love and devotion

because she was his wife; who had nursed her when his child was born,

and tended both with a mother’s care while he was away at Delion. Amykla

came with red eyes and unutterable sorrow in her face.

‘Where is Hippareté? Quick, tell me—where is Hippareté?’

‘Hippareté is gone, Alkibiades! She would stay no longer here.’

‘When did she go?’

‘But yesterday. The poor lady waited for two days and nights in tears.

“Tell me, Amykla, has he come?” she said each minute. “No, Hippareté,

not yet; he will come soon,” said I to cheer her. “Tell me, Amykla, is

he hurt?” “Ah, no; we should soon hear if he was hurt. The great affairs

of Athens keep him. He will soon be the greatest man in Athens. But

yesterday he went to sup with Kleon. Kleon can do nothing without him.

They say Kleon will have to go himself to conquer Brasidas, and he

wishes Alkibiades to go with him. He dare not fight Brasidas without

your Alkibiades. But Alkibiades will not go. He will stay here to lead

the people, and protect his wife and child, whom he loves so much.” So I

babbled to distract her thoughts, although I knew full well where you

were gone. “Bring me,” she said, “the painting of him;” and I brought

it, and then, poor lady, she fell a-kissing of it, till I got her to her

bed and sat beside her as she sobbed and wept. A troubled sleep came

over her at last, and in the morning a slave brought this from Kallias.’

He raised his head and read it.

‘“HIPPARETÉ,

‘“Alkibiades is with Timandra. I await you here. He is not

worthy of you. Come to me and bring your child. I will protect

you.

‘“KALLIAS.”

‘Ah, Alkibiades, could you have seen her then! She rose indignant from

her bed, and taking the child, she bade me stay behind, nor dare to

follow her. Then, turning to me, she gave me the child again. She seemed

as in a daze, and went towards your rooms. When she came back she threw

herself upon her knees beside her couch, and covering her head with both

her hands, she laid it on the pillow, and there she wept until I thought

her heart must break.

‘And then she rose, walked slowly to the door, and turning once more

towards her couch, she raised both hands to heaven, and then I think she

would have fallen had I not caught her in my arms. She let me hold her

for a little while, but at the last she walked slowly away and through

the courtyard, bidding her women to bring the child after her. So she

left us, Alkibiades.’

Long time he stayed there in sadness; then he rose and told Amykla she

might go. Then he gazed mournfully at all the small things that were

hers. He opened the great carved chest. There lay her marriage robe, the

long veil, the faded wreath she had worn the day he brought her to his

home.

There was a strange swelling in his throat, such as he had not felt for

many years.

He found a tablet with her writing on it about some small things that

were wanted for Ephialtes, their child—about a gift for him, as a

surprise. He remembered how happy she had been when she gave it to him.

He almost wept as he went to lie down upon the couch in his own room. He

dare not lie on hers; it seemed a profanation.

In his own room everything had been put in order. He could see her care

for him, for his things were just as he always liked them to be.

He found a scroll of writing on his table. He opened it and read:

‘I have gone back to my old home. Would to the gods that I had never

left it!’

He lay down and slept. It was late before he woke. He remembered he had

promised to sup that night at the house of Polytion. He called his slave

and bade him prepare his bath, and then anoint him.

Dressed in his finest robes, he went to Polytion’s. The feast was nearly

over, and the guests heated with wine. They rallied him as he came in.

He heard Timandra’s name. He declined all food, but drank eagerly of

Polytion’s generous wine unmixed with water. His wit that night was more

poignant, more satirical, than it was wont to be. For all his efforts to

conceal his thoughts, it was plain that something was amiss.

Days passed by in the great solitary house. His nights were spent in

revelry. There was ever present all the time a feeling of imperfectness,

a want. Sometimes he fought against it almost successfully, then it

would come over him again when least expected. When he lay down alone at

night, or in the early morning, he thought of all his wife’s great love

and her devotion, and the kindlier portion of his nature took possession

of him. This was the woman he was repaying for her love by making her

spend days and nights in bitterest anguish. And all that time she was

wandering like a spectre in her brother’s house—the brother she could

never care much for, who was ever trying to persuade her to leave her

husband altogether.

There had never been any love between her brother and her husband. She

half suspected his design was to get back the dowry her father had given

her, and the large patrimony he had left her in his last testament. By

the law of Athens she knew if she left her husband she and all her

fortune would be in her brother’s power.

She soon got tired of living in the brother’s house. Amykla sent her

word each day how unhappy her dear husband was. She pictured him to

herself alone in the big house, no one to take care of him except Amykla

and the slaves. Poor old Amykla, she thought, could not do much for him,

or make up for her. Perhaps he was wishing her to come back, too proud

to ask her to return. And, after all, his great offence, bad as it was,

was not a bit worse than many other men had been guilty of. He was so

strong, so great, so noble. Perhaps she ought not to expect from him all

that other wives might properly expect from their husbands, and he was

pining for her, longing for her back again. Was it not her duty to go to

him?

Then for Ephialtes’ sake ought she not to go—forget it all, try to know

him better, please him more, make him love her more than he could ever

really love that other woman? Ought she not to put up with almost

anything, rather than the child should ever know his father had—had not

been always constant?

Kallias was at her day by day about the question of a divorce. He told

her her husband’s conduct had been such that she had only to go before

the Archon Eponymos, tell him her wrongs, pray for justice, and, by the

law of Athens, he could not refuse it to her. But she must go herself in

person before the magistrate.

She began to think of this, though with a different design to that of

poor, mean Kallias. Yet how terrible to go before so high a judge to

accuse her husband, and lay bare the secrets of their married life.

At length she made a trembling resolution.

On the last day of June, as Alkibiades was sitting over his morning meal

alone, full of many thoughts and plans, and for the moment had almost

forgotten his domestic troubles, his friend Polytion, rushing in, told

him the news, already known by half the town, that Hippareté was even

now in court before the Archon Eponymos suing for——

That was enough. Through the portico and down the steps he went and

swept along the streets of Athens. The people stood aside to let him

pass, staring with wonder at his hurried appearance, for he never

stopped nor noticed anyone till he had reached the Agora and the

Archon’s court.

With a look of indignation on his face, he imperiously brushed aside the

crowd of loiterers who thronged the building, and there before the

Archon he saw Hippareté standing like a suppliant. Two women supported

her on either side, while Kallias stood smiling near her.

At the last moment her courage had forsaken her; she could hardly speak

a word. Had it been an ordinary case the judge would have grown

impatient by this time. As it was the daughter of Hipponikos, the wife

of Alkibiades, he listened patiently, and tried to help the faltering

lady.

But before he could get her story from her there was a loud disturbance

in the building as Alkibiades strode in, and, seizing his wife in both

his arms, as she stood trembling before the Archon, bore her off in

triumph.

And yet she triumphed too. With womanly insight, she had foreseen the

probability of this; and thus she triumphed.

As we read the ancient story of this man’s life, with all his faults and

all his greatness; as we assist, as it were, at the tournament

perpetually going on between the nobler aims and the lower passions,

between the loftier hopes and the desire for immediate enjoyments, we

view, from this far distance, often with feelings of despair, the worse

part of him constantly thwarting, sometimes spoiling, his highest

efforts, his greatest victories. But in judging of his actions it is

only fair to recollect the manners of the times in which he lived. We

may condemn the morals of that age, and those who try to imitate them in

our own; she could forgive him; let us not pass too harsh a judgment

upon him.

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CHAPTER VII

‘Sound, sound the clarion, fill the fife,

To all the sensual world proclaim,

One crowded hour of glorious life

Is worth an age without a name.’

SIR W. SCOTT.

MANY great affairs of state have happened since the events we have just

recorded. Kleon, at length carrying out the threat made at his

celebrated banquet the year before, put himself at the head of the

Athenian army, and at the end of B.C. 422 met Brasidas, the Spartan

general, at the fatal battle of Amphipolis, and was defeated. Both

generals fell.

The death of Kleon at that time was a leading fact in the future life of

Alkibiades. But for that event happening just then, he might have been

spared his great temptations, saved from many errors, and this narrative

might never have been written.

Nikias was left without a rival; his opponents had no leader. His party,

chiefly the safe and wealthy citizens, with the suburban and rural

inhabitants, could now meet the Spartan Kings and Ephors upon equal

terms. A peace was signed for fifty years. So far, perhaps, they acted

wisely. An alliance was then made, offensive and defensive, between

these two leading states—Sparta pre-eminent again by land, the Athenians

by sea. A questionable policy, as the event soon proved. So matters

stood at the beginning of the year 421, the turning-point in the career

of Alkibiades. The son of Kleinias then reached the age at which all

citizens of every rank could take their part in the Parliament of

Athens.

For some time he had been in much perplexity. At one period he had

nearly joined his fortunes with the aristocracy, the peace party. Many

circumstances inclined him to that side. His large domains were injured

by the war. His personal proclivities were all towards the knights his

comrades, and the great old families, most of whom were his relations or

his friends. Then Nikias was getting old, and though an experienced

soldier, he was feeble, and near-sighted, and bungling as a politician.

Another and a younger man would soon be wanted; none so likely to

succeed, or supersede, him as Alkibiades.

By throwing in his lot with the old and powerful plutocracy, he would be

spared the constant efforts, distasteful and laborious, the oftentimes

degrading arts he knew were necessary, if he was to win and keep the

suffrages of an exacting populace.

The country and suburban interests were all against the war. War meant

loss and even ruin to the farmers and workers in the mines, to all who

depended on their lands outside the city, and to many of the middle

class within. So there was a strong party pledged to peace. He was

really persuaded, too, just now, that peace with Sparta, if she could be

made to keep her promises, was better for the future welfare of the

state, surrounded by her many enemies.

On the other hand, to join the oligarchs was to desert the traditions of

his ancestors. From the reformer Kleisthenes, who had expelled the

tyrants—the far-sighted founder of the Athenian democracy—to Perikles,

his family had been the leaders, the benefactors, of the people. The

policy of the old conservators seemed tame to him. Changes must come.

Better to lead the van than drag along amongst the rear. Progressive

instincts of the people may be directed: they cannot be confined for

ever. The excitement of the popular assembly was in accord with his

impulsive nature. By force of intellect to rule the people in the

Ekklesia, as the deliberative Parliament was called, as their recognised

leader, to sway them by his words, to persuade them by his greater

wisdom—was not that worth the sacrifice of ease and high conservative

respectability? War, too, gave his ambitious soul more scope than peace.

Had Kleon lived, it may be doubted to which side the balance would have

turned. Had he lived but for a short time longer, it may be that

Alkibiades would have placed all his weight against the war, have sided

with the oligarchic faction, have in time become their leader, have

lived and died a rich and comfortable conservative. He might have been

spared his great temptations, his faults and sufferings, and might have

missed the tide which bore him on to victory, and enabled him to make a

name to be remembered amongst the greatest of mankind for ever.

But Kleon died just at the nick of time, and Alkibiades resolved, with

all the ardour of his energetic soul, to cast his lot upon the side of

progress and the people.

He had already become famous for his lavish hospitality. His triremes,

when the state wanted ships, were the largest, strongest, most

completely manned, and liberally provided. The chorus which he presented

to the city, when he undertook the duty of choregos for his tribe, was

the finest, best instructed and most splendidly got up, that had

appeared upon the Athenian stage. He had maintained the singers, both

men and boys, at his own house during their time of training, and no

objection had been made to his addition of some of the famous musicians

from other Grecian cities.

The play given on that occasion was that most touching tale of Herakles

and Deianira. He arranged the choric songs himself, and gained immense

applause for that one especially, where the chorus laments the tragic

fate of the strong man of Greece and of his wife. Though the wits

laughed and pretended to see in Deianira, because of her jealousy, and

her fears lest she should not be able to retain the sole affection of

her hero, a resemblance to Hippareté, the people were enraptured.

As the chorus burst out, ‘But the Kyprian goddess, silently busy, has

plainly appeared the doer of these things,’ the applause was unanimous.

Even the old-fashioned musicians who condemned the new style in which

the cadences of the songs were sung, the larger instrumental

accompaniment, and, above all things, the additional string which his

friend Timotheos had added to the kithara, were for the moment carried

away by the beauty of the music, and forgot to grumble.

His bounty to the poor, too, was boundless. Even the lawlessness of

which his enemies complained had generally some kindness, or at least

some mere exuberance of spirits, at the bottom of it. No instance could

anyone remember where his eccentricities had done harm to anyone. These

eccentricities were forgotten, forgiven, for his generosity.

Passing one day when a state distribution of small coins was being made

to all the indigent and workless, he ordered the dole to be doubled at

his charges. The people, unable to restrain their gratitude at this new

evidence of his compassion, led him home in triumph.

And thus at the opening of his political life, though there were envious

rivals, he was the most popular of the citizens. The people love to have

a man of great and ancient family to lead them. So even before he could

take part in the debates of the Assembly he was recognised as the leader

of the people’s party in the place of Kleon.

It is a great event in a man’s life when he first takes his seat in a

popular assembly. After many years of hope deferred and unsuccessful

efforts, when, each time we try, we think this time at last we must

succeed, and then, when the votes are counted, after waiting with

ill-concealed anxiety for the result, we find we have again just missed

the mark, and we determine we will never, never try again; when we

think, after all, the game is not worth playing, and we have to make a

speech thanking those who have voted for us, and hinting at all we might

have done for our opponents, as well as for those who have given us

their support; and then, and then, come other opportunities, and we

allow ourselves to be persuaded, against the grave advice of friends and

relatives, to try once more, and then, if at length we are elected, with

what strange indescribable feelings we walk in and take our place, if

there is room for us, upon those seats it has cost us so much to get at!

Those only who have undergone all this can really know the feeling.

True, Alkibiades had not to wait until he could get the people’s vote

and confidence as against some other candidate, but he had waited for at

least ten years till he was old enough. Though there was no precise law

at Athens forbidding citizens to speak as soon as they had completed

their twentieth year, the age at which they were capable of assisting at

the meetings of the Ekklesia, there was so strong an unwritten custom

against anyone below the age of thirty presuming to address the great

Assembly that it had all the force of law.

In fact, few ever spoke at all except the wealthy, the high-born, or the

trained orators. So great was the critical nicety of the Athenian ear

and taste that any fault of grammar or pronunciation, which all but the

well-educated few could not help but make, at once called forth a

clamour of disgust. It was only by force of impudence, or extraordinary

natural power, that such men as Hyperbolos or Kleon could gain a

hearing.

During all these tedious ten years he had felt how much fitter he was to

direct affairs, to persuade the people, to govern in their name, than

those who were in power. He saw the short-sightedness, and all the

wretched bungling, both in peace and war, of a man like Nikias. He saw

the mistakes and weakness of Kleon, and while admiring the skill and

artifice with which the demagogue could gain his ends, he could not help

despising his—well, his want of breeding. Still, for a whole year after

the time when he might have spoken, he only pondered over and elaborated

his great designs, and thought or talked of them in private; with

marvellous restraint he held his peace in public, and bided his time.

At length the full time came. The day arrived at last when he might not

only sit and vote, but might also mount the steps of the great stone

tribune, and loudly speak his long-pent-up thoughts unto his

fellow-citizens.

Argos, it was known, had been in treaty for some time with Lakedaimôn

for an alliance. An alliance between these, the two strongest states in

the Peloponnesos, against Athens meant the end of the Athenian Empire.

Nikias had given back to Sparta the prisoners Kleon had taken at

Sphakteria, without receiving any compensating advantage in return for

them. So the Athenians lost the great check they had held for so long

upon their rivals. Sparta had promised, in return, to restore

Amphipolis; but this she had not done. She undertook, on oath, to assist

Athens in her wars; she gave her no assistance in her efforts to recover

her revolted dependencies. She was bound by the terms of the alliance

not to make a treaty with anyone without the consent of Athens; but she

made a treaty with Boiotia, the most dangerous enemy of Athens, without

consulting her.

At last even Nikias and his party, who were answerable for the peace,

grew weary. Alkibiades, who at one time had imagined, and hoped for, the

possibility of a peace with Sparta, the home of many of his ancestors,

and, indeed, had endeavoured to bring it about, now saw the hopelessness

of ever being able to trust such a people. He also foresaw the strength

it would bring to Athens, the perils it would save her from, if her

future policy were alliance with Argos against Sparta.

There never could be, he was convinced, a lasting truce with Sparta. She

was oligarchic and dishonest. Argos was democratic, and he had reason to

know from his friends there that the Argives, together with the people

of Elis and Mantineia, were about to send an embassy to Athens to treat

for an alliance. The Spartans, hearing of this, and frightened by the

warnings and threats of their friend Nikias, thought it was time they

too should send ambassadors to explain their conduct, and prevent, if

possible, the proposed alliance with the Argives and their allies. Both

embassies arrived at the same time at Athens.

Endios, a leading Lakedaimônian of high birth, whom we shall meet again,

was one of the three Spartan ambassadors. He was a relation and firm

friend of the family of Alkibiades, and was his guest during his visit

to Athens.

The cordial terms upon which these two representatives of both branches

of the great family remained with one another then, and always

afterwards, in spite of the strong part taken by Alkibiades against

Lakedaimôn, is a sufficient refutation of the calumny on him, first

formulated by Thoukydides—who never can resist the temptation of an

opportunity to bear false witness against the leader of a side opposed

to him in politics—that, with a cunning alien to his whole character, he

deliberately misled his guest and relative by an unworthy trick, and

induced the Spartan ambassadors to deny their powers.

Not only his friendship with Endios, but the way in which he was

afterwards received by Sparta, is enough to dispose of the accusation,

without pointing out that the ambassadors would have been below the

ordinary level of human beings in intelligence, instead of being picked

diplomatists, if they could have been taken in by any such artifice as

that ascribed to Alkibiades, which would not have been noticed here had

not the tale of Thoukydides been repeated by nearly every historian

since he wrote.

The Spartan ambassadors appeared before the Senate, and, amongst other

things, declared they had full powers to treat with Athens. They were

favourably received, and referred to a meeting of the Assembly to be

held in a few days, at which the ambassadors of Argos and her allies

were also to appear.

In fact, the Spartan envoys had exaggerated their powers before the

Senate. They had really only been sent to gain time, to prevent the

threatened alliance with the other Peloponnesian states, not to bind

Lakedaimôn by any precise obligations. Having incautiously declared they

were entrusted with powers they did not in fact possess, they now saw it

would be necessary when they came before the Ekklesia, the fundamental

ruler of Athens, to modify their unqualified pretence.

The appointed day arrived. A summons to the citizens to attend a meeting

of the Ekklesia to be held that day at the Pnyx was made by criers

throughout the town. A notice of the questions to be discussed, of the

business to be done, was placed upon the well-known post in the old

Agora. At dawn the huge semicircular theatre, cut out of the rock from

which it took its name, with its innumerable seats of stone, was duly

purified. Then came the heralds’ solemn prayer, with the offering of

incense, and the curse on all who should give evil counsel or deceive

the people.

By this time the citizens had assembled, and all, except the rich,

received a token entitling them to the payment of an obolos for their

attendance. They came in more than their ordinary numbers this day, for

the business was interesting and important, and it was rumoured that

Alkibiades would speak.

The people took their seats according to their several tribes. The

President of the Prytanes—those whose duty it was, each successive

month, to guard in turn the sacred fire, symbol of a common hearth of

the one great family at Athens—called on the business of the day, and

then put the ancient formal question: ‘Who wishes to speak?’

The Spartans, as allies, had the right of prior audience. They came

forward and attempted to explain their conduct. After making several

lame excuses, on being pressed, they admitted they had not full powers

to pledge their country for the future.

Then Alkibiades arose, mounted the great stone steps that led to the

bema, or tribune, which Solon and Aristeides, Themistokles and Perikles,

had often trod before—and which the traveller may still see standing

there silently, as they stood more than two thousand years ago—and found

himself alone on that exalted platform, about to engage the whole

attention of the vast audience.

At the first utterance of his pent-up thoughts his countenance glowed

with animation. His personality seemed to himself to be projected on to

the listening multitude. Almost unconscious of his individuality, there

was a consciousness of a great silence round about him—a silence of

everything except his own voice, which sounded as from a distance on his

ears. He felt the rapt attention of the crowd, and saw ten thousand

faces turned to him, their eyes fixed on him alone. He marvelled for a

moment at his rush of eloquence, his facility of speech, his ready

argument. Yet it was altogether different to that which they had been

accustomed to from Kleon. There was no ranting, no pacing up and down.

He had not studied in the schools of rhetoric in vain. Even the lessons

he had learnt among the Sophists were of use to him. There was a

conciseness, a conclusiveness, in his arguments. His very hesitation

sometimes for a word, when he wished to be precise, the repetition which

he sometimes made of one sentence ere he began another, which he

sometimes made, gave an added power to his utterance. But there was

something more than this—a soul which spake from out the depths, and

went to the souls of his hearers, holding them captive. His splendid

presence, his graceful action, lent a charm to all he said, and when

roused to passion his whole face seemed transformed, his eyes fired with

the latent energy within.

At first he spoke of Nikias and the peace, and showed how it had been

dictated by a selfish policy, because Nikias, having got a reputation as

a general, had nothing more to gain by war, and was anxious to enjoy the

laurels he had won, for peace meant to him a long continuance of such

fame as he had got, free from all further risk, while it prevented any

other from rising up to rival him.

The people rose, and, as it were, with one voice demanded that Nikias

should be haled before the dikasts, the judges in such cases, and tried

for treason to the state. With perhaps real generosity, Alkibiades

soothed their vehemence.

‘After all, it may have been the fault of old age and imbecility, not of

design,’ he said, and then went on to say that others at one

time—indeed, he himself for a short space—had thought that peace was

necessary.

So, passing by the peace, he came to deal with the alliance.

‘Alliance!’ he exclaimed, and with a state known for its perfidy.

Alliance! With a people whose selfishness and craft made it better to

have them as open enemies than as friends! Alliance! With a people who

from the time when they had laid upon themselves the most sacred

obligations, with all the solemn sanction of libations to the gods, had

never ceased to break each separate clause and article of the treaty

they then made; and who quite lately, when they renewed their promises,

were, at that very time, intriguing with the enemies of Athens!

The Spartan prisoners taken by the great Kleon at Sphakteria had by

Nikias been given up to Sparta, while Athens got nothing in return.

Amphipolis, which by another clause was to have been immediately

restored to Athens, was in the power of the enemies of Athens still. All

this was allowed by Nikias. Panakton had been promised in like way to be

restored. It had been restored indeed, but shorn of more than half its

value, and dismantled of its fortress. According to another clause no

alliance should be made by either party with the enemies of either, yet

Sparta had been allowed to enter into close alliance with Boiotia, the

deadly foe of Athens. All this without remonstrance! And now the

perfidious Lakedaimônians were seeking fresh alliances with Argos, Elis,

and other states, to help them in their old desire to crush Athens. All

this he had foreseen and provided for. The ambassadors of Argos, Elis,

and Mantineia were here ready to come before the people and propose an

enduring treaty with them. He advised that the Spartans be sent home

again and the other ambassadors be heard.

In conclusion, he dwelt upon the greater wisdom of a firm alliance with

the democratic Argos—‘a state with the same honest hopes and form of

government as we have, rather than with an oligarchic aristocracy like

Sparta, which hates freedom and the power of the people; which can do

nothing that will bring us any good; which will do all it can to aid our

enemies at home to restore an oligarchic rule’—and which would in the

end bring back that tyranny which his own ancestor had once before freed

Athens from, they then had hoped for ever.

The people shouted their assent. They rose and waved, shouted and

cheered, and cheered and waved again. They had most of them known this

Alkibiades from boyhood. They had laughed at his many young excesses;

sometimes they had feared his lawless disposition, and dreaded his

imperious nature. They had been told by those who knew him best that

there was something more within him. They had seen his splendour, shared

his generosity; but many doubted when he had been chosen as their

leader. But now this—this was a revelation to them. None had imagined

the possibility of such great earnestness and force in him who had been

known as the soft, sensual, luxurious, even effeminate Alkibiades.

They were for sending the Spartan envoys home at once. Indeed, had it

not been for the sanctity of their office, they would have been rudely

treated. The ambassadors of Argos and her allies were admitted to the

Assembly, and their offers listened to with respectful approbation. No

one could doubt which way the vote of the Ekklesia would go.

So great had been the effect wrought by the speech of Alkibiades, that

the more circumspect, even among his own friends, taking advantage of

the rumour of an earthquake, thought it wiser to close the session for

that day, and not give their final vote till they had recovered from the

spell of the enchanter.

He went home, declining the prayers of many of his companions, of both

parties, that he would come to the gay banquets with which the rich

Greeks were wont to celebrate the closing of the day. He was filled with

many thoughts and introspections. This was the end, so far, at which he

had aimed. He felt that thus far he had done well. What of the future?

Was his choice always to be that which he knew was best for Athens? He

faithfully believed he had made a wise choice that day. But in the

future, when her best interests might clash with his, when hers and his

might come in conflict,—what then? He could see such conflicts possible.

How would he then demean himself?

Amykla had heard the news; it had soon reached his home. She had already

told Hippareté of his great success. A strange new feeling came upon the

wondering wife. She was not surprised at what was told her. It was what

she always knew must happen if he cared to try. She had loved him

hitherto with a blind, unreasoning love. She knelt before him now as

though he were a god.

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CHAPTER VIII

‘Ther as need is they were nothyng ydel,

Ther fomen steeds on the golden bridel

Knawing.’

CHAUCER: _Knight’s Tale_.

‘And while she seemed to hear her beating heart,

Above their heads the trumpet blast rang out,

And forth they sprang.’

MORRIS: _Atalanta’s Race_.

THE same year which saw his triumph as an orator and a statesman gave

Alkibiades an opportunity of another triumph, in Grecian eyes, no less

great and wonderful. The first had brought with it immense advantage to

the state, and repaired the injuries inflicted by the weakness of poor

Nikias; the second enabled him to do perhaps as great a service to his

country, and shine resplendently before the whole of Greece.

In the year 420 the ninetieth of the Olympic games was celebrated. The

war, which had continued, with varying success, between Sparta with her

allies and Athens, shut the Athenians out of Elis, the territory in

which the Olympic games were held. Athens had been excluded from the two

last contests. Argos and Elis, though neutral in the war, were allied

with Sparta, and dare not act against her. This alliance was at an end.

Elis could now welcome the Athenians.

They determined by the splendour of their appearance to make up for

their absence at the two last festivals, and give the lie to the

Spartans, who were spreading it about that Athens was so ruined by the

ten years’ war that she would be unable to make a show at the coming

games.

His patriotism and generosity, his love of splendour, his foresight, his

ambition, all determined Alkibiades to make an occasion for display such

as no individual ever made before, and such as no Greek has ever

rivalled since.

The plain itself where the Olympic games were held had been designed, it

seemed, by the gods themselves only for this purpose. The vale was

sacred to the gods, the games were, as it were, divine.

During the four years which intervened between each celebration the

Olympic valley was tenanted by its sixty temples, nearly three times as

many altars, and a thousand statues of former victors. No human beings

were allowed within that sacred spot except the priests who tended the

altars and ministered within the temples, which the gods, as it was

said, loved to inhabit. The scene was fit for gods. The very air was

more diaphanous, serene, and clear, the rivers, the woods, the hills,

more lovely, than elsewhere; the flowers there gave out a more delicious

fragrance. All was filled with a peace divine, and with the beauty of

the world.

But when the cycle of the months of quietude was past, then all was

animation, as striking as the peace had been before. The Eleans, special

guardians of the sacred vale, had sent their unarmed troops in

preparation. Greeks were hurrying hitherward from every colony, island,

city, town, from all the villages of Ionia and Greece. The Spartans

alone, on account of their base conduct, were excluded. Stadia,

theatres, and places where the manly combats of all sorts would be

witnessed by unnumbered crowds, were ready. Soon the surrounding hills

were covered by ten thousand tents and other temporary habitations.

Where silence had reigned so long, all became bustle and activity, until

the day came when the ‘architheori,’ who were the chiefs selected to

head the missions of envoys (called ‘theori’) sent by the different

states to represent them at the sacred games, were seen approaching the

renowned Olympic valley, with all their followers, high and low,

musicians, singers, runners, wrestlers, boxers, and athletes of every

kind.

Unless we realize the depth of the religious meaning of the games we

shall but inadequately understand the honours that were given to the

victors. After due study of the history of the Grecian race, we say

advisedly that no honour known in Greece, whether that given to the

statesman, the poet, sculptor, tragedian, or even to the greatest

warrior and general, was to be compared with the honours given to the

victors at these games.

A statue of each victor was erected there; and the people of his native

town or village went forth to meet him as he returned, and brought him

home in triumph, with garlands, music, and with incense. An opening was

made in the city walls, that he might come in by a way no one had

entered through before. His name was graven on stone or brass in the

most noted place, and he and his descendants after him were maintained

at the sole charges of the state. No Roman Emperor, proceeding in

triumph through the streets of Rome, was more honoured than a victor at

the Olympic games.

And the reason was the holy sanction given them. It might be of the last

importance to the several states that their young men should be for ever

training themselves, keeping their bodies in subjection, strengthening

their thews, their muscles, and their nerves, so that at each returning

festival they might maintain the glory of their native towns or

villages, and prepare themselves to fight when called on for their

liberties. That was, indeed, a great thing, and had an influence on

every man and boy, and woman too, within them. But the first thought

that ran through all was to do honour to the gods, who in their various

temples deigned to be present and accept the services and sacrifices

that were offered to them.

And this, the ninetieth Olympiad, was for many reasons peculiarly grand.

First came the Korinthian theori, with their four-horse chariot,

destined to run in the chief race, with their chanters and musicians, as

well as their athletes, in magnificent array. Ere they had been received

by the presiding priest and his attendant train, the smaller company

that had come from the island of Chios was seen descending from the

north-east of the Olympic hill, which protected that side of the natural

amphitheatre. Lesbos came next, then Kyzikos from the distant Propontis.

And then processions from all the different Ionian and Doric Grecian

towns, from all except from Sparta. Each was distinguished by its own

style of dress, which differed in some respects from that of the others;

each with its athletes and its chorus; most of them with their racing

chariots.

When they were all assembled, some began to sneer at Athens, saying that

after all her boasting they doubted if she would appear at all, being

too proud to make a humble show, too impoverished to make a great one.

When all were welcoming friends long unmet, kinsmen, and old

acquaintances, and there was a general feeling of expectancy, a stir

arose among them, a consciousness of something coming, and over the

highest road appeared the foreguard of the architheorus of Athens. He

was drawn superbly in his equipage of state. Then followed the renowned

athletes, the well-known champions with the diskos, the wrestlers,

boxers, runners, whose names were known as household words in all the

Grecian cities. Then came the four-horse chariot of the state, which

also would contend in the great chariot race, the crowning contest of

the sports.

So the Athenians’ stately show came on. Those who had jeered were

silent; all saw that Athens meant to do her best, and would, an she

could, still show herself the first of all. But then appeared a wondrous

thing—another chariot with four bays, driven by Tolas, the famous

charioteer, now in the service of Alkibiades, and surrounded by his

retainers.

It was soon noised abroad that this fine chariot and its more splendid

horses, bred by Alkibiades himself, and reared on his patrimonial

estates, was sent by him to strive to wrest the first prize from all

states and peoples who should contend. Seldom, it was said, had any

private individual yet been known to send a four-horse chariot. Though

cities and states and kings and tyrants might do so, it was considered

too great a burden for one man so to uphold the honour of his land, and

thus do service to Olympic gods.

Before the people had recovered from their astonishment, and to the

amazement of them all, there followed close behind another chariot,

driven by another of Alkibiades’ men, and then another, and then two

more, all four-horse chariots belonging to him. And before their fresh

wonder was abated, lo another four-horse chariot, and then another. This

last one, more ornate and graceful, designed for show rather than for

the rough contest of the race, was driven by its lord himself. The four

magnificent black steeds, scarcely less fleet than those of the first

chariot, knew well his voice and face, but best of all the firmness of

the hand that guided them.

The cheers, the shouts of admiration, the joy of all the people, as he

passed along, proved how the honour he had done to them, to the games,

and to the gods, was recognised by everyone. The theori of various

cities vied with one another in their welcome. The Ephesians asked to be

allowed to offer him a sumptuous tent, in which he might repose; Chios,

that it might provide the forage for such horses; the Lesbians, that

they might supply his wine and his repasts; while the theori of Kyzikos

sent him the victims for his holy sacrifices.

Next day began with prayers, libations, solemn processions, and

sacrifices to the gods; for the gods themselves had not disdained of old

to strive for prizes at these games. Then came gymnastic exercises. The

first prize was won by Klynios of Korinth. Then a race for youths wont

to do all their exercises nude, and in the open air, not shivering and

coy, as unaccustomed to the light and fresh air of the heavens, but as

if in their native element, unclad.

Then a chariot race, won by the state of Argos. Two chariots of

Alkibiades took part in this; one came in fourth. Then many contests of

leaping, boxing, wrestling, and then a chariot race, won by the Boiotian

chariot. This was a most exciting race, and would have been won by

Alkibiades, as most men said, but that the Syrakusan competitor went too

near the altar of Taraxippos, dreaded of all horses, and steeds,

chariot, and charioteer were commingled in the dust, in front of the

Athenian car, just as its driver prepared to make his final rush; so it

obtained only the second prize.

The first day’s sport concluded with music and selections from the

‘Ajax’ and ‘Agamemnon’ at the larger theatre. Alkibiades was loudly

cheered as he came in with the missions of Thebes and of Athens. And

after that came a brilliant feast, at which the Eleans entertained the

representatives of the various states and all who had come to try for

prizes at the games.

On the second day a race for hoplites, heavy-armed soldiers, with

nothing on but their shining greaves and helmets and carrying their

shields, opened the proceedings. Then a chariot race, won apparently by

the Boiotian federation—at least, in their name the chariot had been

entered, and as a Boiotian victory it was proclaimed. But then a curious

scene occurred. A rich and well-known Lakedaimonian named Laches, who

was allowed to be present as a private person, but was not permitted to

take part in the contests, because of the conduct of his countrymen,

unable to restrain his pride, rushed forward eagerly and placed a wreath

upon the head of the victorious charioteer, an act which implied that

he, and not Boiotia, was the real owner of the chariot. The people were

indignant at the trick by which the Spartan attempted to outwit them and

to set the order of the sacred games at nought. The Elean guardians of

the course, seizing the offender, punished his act of disobedience by

scourging him, and drove him from the ground.

On the third day, after many other races, came the pentathlon, in which

the victor had to excel in the fivefold exercise of running, jumping,

wrestling, and throwing the spear and the diskos. The name of him who

won the prize for these combined accomplishments has not come down to

us. Then, last of all, came the greatest of the races, in which the

four-horse chariots of different states—Korinth, Miletos, Chios, Samos,

Argos, Lesbos, Athens, Abydos—took part, and also the private chariot of

Alkibiades. The Thebans, who had won on the first day, prayed that they

might be suffered to contend again in this the crowning struggle. They

were especially pledged, if possible, to beat their rival Athens; and,

indeed, as the end proved, they did excel the architheoric chariot. By

consent of all the judges Thebes was allowed to race, although already

victors at these games.

Whatever attention had been given to the various events by those who

cared especially for this or that peculiar form of emulation, it was all

concentrated now on the closing contest. Some thought they could trace

signs of anxiety on the face of Alkibiades, as he assisted Tolas to

mount the lightly-built, well-balanced vehicle, and could catch almost a

pathetic look as he stroked the manes of those dear horses who knew his

touch, and neighed with equine love as they turned their heads and saw

their master, giving promise that, come who might against them, they

would do what in them lay to bring him glory and repay the care he had

bestowed upon them. How many times in after-years he thought of those so

cherished animals, their more than human fidelity!

But now it was time to take his place among the great men and hide all

traces of emotion. It was for this moment he had longed so many years,

of this he had so often dreamt by night, to this, when a boy, he had

looked forward as the great effort of his life—his worthiest effort. Now

it was here—the very moment was arrived.

He was speaking courteously to those near him—men whose names would live

in their various cities for generations not yet born; but he saw them

indistinctly, or as in a dream. His thoughts, his eyes, were there where

ten chariots stood abreast and forty horses were waiting for the signal

to be given, their hearts leaping with excitement, feeling as though

wings had come upon them and they must fly. And off they went; the cries

were deafening. Seas of faces watched them upon their way; seas of faces

greeted them as they turned the corner and the first round was run.

‘Thebes and Boiotia!’ cried the crowd, as the victor of the first day’s

race was seen to lead. ‘Thebes and Boiotia!’ yelled the Thebans, and all

who took their side. Thebes and Boiotia seemed, indeed, to be about to

gain the double prize.

Here they come round for the last time, and the trumpets sound a gallant

flourish. Now they near the end. Thebes and Boiotia first—not much ahead

of Tolas there, just behind, as calm as his master tries to be—now

scarcely ahead at all. ‘Ye gods, a hundred victims if I win!’ And as he

stretched forth head and neck, forgetting his affected carelessness,

among the mass of faces gazing all one way, peering to catch the first

sight of the flying chariots, the horses straining every nerve and sinew

of their frames, he met the great eyes of Sokrates turned full upon him.

Some had come to sell their wares: painters to puff their pictures;

sculptors to show their graven images; authors to recite their works, if

they could get a chance; most had come to watch the games and races.

Sokrates had come to watch mankind, and amongst them one he cared for

more than all the rest.

It was no time now to notice Sokrates. The chariots were scarce three

hundred yards to where the winning-post was waiting for them, when, as

with a bound into the air, the four bay horses brought their car up to

and right ahead of all the others, and shouts arose: ‘Boiotia’s beaten!

Tolas comes in more than two chariot-lengths ahead! Athens and

Alkibiades!’

He heard no more distinctly. The hills went round for a moment, a mist

came over them; he felt his hands grasped by many a rough and horny

palm, and then he heard an endless shouting in his ears, and he felt

somewhat ashamed as he wiped away a few big drops that had started from

his forehead, and one or two others that had gathered to his eyes.

Before them all he was crowned with the simplest wreath on earth, made

of wild olive-leaves, but the wild olive-tree from which they had been

gathered grew only in that sacred grove, and the wreath was worth more

to him and every other Greek than any kingly diadem. There was a great

feast given by the architheori that night to the several victors in the

games; and first among them, calm and radiant, sat the Athenian

conqueror.

When it was over and he had retired to the tent provided for him by the

state of Ephesos, and his servants and companions had left him, seeking

their various amusements or repose, he strolled forth disguised, to muse

in quiet after the day’s excitement. The scene was a curious one, the

plain and its surrounding hills glimmering with ten thousand lights, and

far and near resounding with music, mirth, and revelry; yet he heard and

saw but little. While deep in a dreamy state of happiness, and some

half-conscious sense of being still unsatisfied, a well-remembered voice

recalled him to himself:

‘Son of Kleinias, art thou now content?’

‘Why not, Sokrates?’

‘Does the prize which thou hast won, that barren wreath of olive,

satisfy thy soul?’

‘What could on earth, if that did not?’

‘Thou seest these thousands of the Greeks of every state and city except

one, all engaged in peaceful rivalry and games, and in the service of

the gods; would it not be well if Greece could ever be at peace, and all

the cities and peoples live together, like one state?’

‘Indeed, I think it might be well.’

‘And hadst thou not an opportunity of late to keep peace with the

bravest of them all—the rough and manly Spartans?’

‘I know not what you mean, Sokrates. I did the best I could for Athens.

But tell me, thou who art so fond of questioning, when first the gods

made man, did not they put into his heart a love of war? And if we

should have peace for ever, might not mankind, grown sleek and fat,

perchance forget the gods, nor ask for courage, nor delight in manly

exercise?’

‘Not so, oh son of Kleinias, for peace would nourish wisdom, and so

bring out all that is virtuous in man.’

‘But war also gives many opportunities of acquiring wisdom and

practising virtue, and let me ask you this, Sokrates, have not the great

gods planted in man’s breast a strong wish to propagate his race, and if

there were no wars, would not the earth be overrun with men, till they

must starve or feed on one another? Is it not better that we, being men,

should die in noble combat, like the heroes who have gone before us,

than feed like wild beasts upon our fellows?’

‘Son of Kleinias, thou hast put too long a question. I cannot answer it.

The gods alone know which is better, peace or war.’

Soon after this conversation Alkibiades assisted at the ratification of

the Argive treaty. It had been stipulated that this should be done at

these Olympic games. So before the temple of Olympic Zeus, where the

great gold and ivory statue of the god, the masterpiece of Pheidias, had

lately been erected, he and the other leading men and generals on both

sides swore, with libations to the god, to observe it faithfully.

Then he gave his splendid banquet to the Elean chiefs, to the various

missions which had come from all parts of Greece, and to the victors in

the different games. Next day he set out for home; and the people from

the isles and colonies, and all the states of Greece, departed, and the

Olympic vale became once more the quiet habitation only of the gods and

their attendants.

He went back much in the same array as that in which he came, but with

an added glory. He had come as a competitor, he returned a victor.

Seated in his chariot, dressed in purple, the wild olive wreath upon his

head, he entered Athens. If he had been a god, indeed, descending from

Olympos, he could hardly have been more rapturously received. The city

in one mass came out to meet him. Flowers were strewn along the way;

with songs and incense he was greeted. Friends and foes alike strove who

could give him warmest welcome. None could keep at home on such a day.

The people were seized with a joyful madness, like a troop of

Bacchanals.

Afterwards, when enthusiasm had quieted, as all enthusiasms will in

time, Pyromachos, the sculptor, was ordered by the city to design that

wonderful bronze statue of Alkibiades, which represents him in a

life-like attitude, himself driving the four-horse chariot with those

noble animals by whose aid he won the chief prize at the ninetieth of

the Olympic celebrations.

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CHAPTER IX

‘Wer nicht liebt Wein, Weib und Gesang,

Der Bleibt ein Narr sein Leben lang.’

‘Who loves not woman, wine and song,

Remains a fool all his life long.’

THE battle of Mantineia was fought, as all men know, in the month of

June, 418 years before the Christian era; and, as all men do not know,

Alkibiades saw it fought.

In 419, a year after what was the crowning glory of his early life, and

perhaps its zenith, he was chosen as one of the strategi, who were

ministers of state and generals of the Athenian army.

Before he could receive that dignity, one of the highest in Athens, and

before, indeed, he could have been made one of the mission at the

Olympic games, he, like everyone else elected to either of those

offices, was called upon to show that there was no stain upon his public

or his private character. This is an answer to those enemies of his who

charge his earlier years with acts of serious lawlessness.

In his capacity of general, with a picked force of men, he had been sent

across the Peloponnesos, more for the sake of encouraging allies than to

engage an enemy. He visited Argos, and there the prop and stay of Argos,

the author of the treaty with them, and the victor at the recent games,

was hailed by almost all as a hero and a deliverer.

The treaty strengthened and enlarged, he went to Patrai, on the west

coast, taking with him a contingent from Argos, not so much to increase

his force as to show how real was the alliance between Athens and the

Argives. A glance at the map of Greece will show how useful Patrai would

become to Athens in her struggle with Peloponnesian enemies. He

convinced the citizens that if the city were fortified by long walls

stretching to the sea, they might defend themselves against any enemy by

land, while Athens would be able to bring them aid by sea.

His mission finished, he returned to Athens. Soon it was known that the

Lakedaimonians were on the march for Argos. He was immediately placed at

the head of a larger force than he had before commanded, and sent to

Argos; but the enemy retired, so, after harrying some of the

Lakedaimonian allies, he went back to Athens.

On his return, enraged at this fresh proof of Spartan perfidy—for they

were still allies of Athens, and bound by their treaty not to make war

upon Athenian allies—he so roused the people in the Ekklesia that they

decreed there should be written at the bottom of the brass pillar, where

the treaty between them and Sparta was engraved, these shameful words

for Sparta: ‘The Spartans broke their oaths.’

After this, in March, 418, without further warning, the Spartans

equipped a large force of all kinds under King Agis against Argos, and

marched upon its territory. The Argives met them. There was no time to

get help from Athens. Some of the higher families in Argos, like the

aristocracy in Athens, favoured Sparta and an oligarchic government. By

their influence a truce for four months was concluded with King Agis.

Then the Athenians, seeing there was something weak in Argos, sent

Alkibiades as ambassador there, to help the democratic party to keep up

against their Spartan enemies without and their traitorous aristocracy

within the city walls. They also sent a force of horse and foot to aid

them, under Laches and Nikostratos. The people of Argos were at first

afraid to break the truce which had been made against their will with

Sparta. It required all the eloquence of Alkibiades in their Assembly to

prevent them sending back this help from Athens.

He spoke to them of what, in times gone by, they had endured at Sparta’s

hands; how Sparta was still as great an enemy to them as ever; how ‘two

years ago they had made that solemn pact with Athens; how well the

Athenians had kept it on their side; how it had been ratified at the

ninetieth of the Olympic celebrations.’ There were shouts of applause as

he thus modestly referred to the scene of his late victory. Warmed by

this token of their favour, he concluded: ‘Oh men of Argos, while we are

here to go with you to death or victory, while we are sworn never to

leave you till you have overcome this treacherous foe, will you go back

from your promises, and leave a name to after-times like that of Sparta,

as breakers of your word and faith, and of a treaty of alliance ratified

before the whole of Greece, and at the very dwelling-place of Zeus?’

He had almost as great a success in the Assembly at Argos as he had when

he first proposed the treaty with them at Athens. The people decreed

with acclamation that the war with Sparta should go on; the truce was at

an end. They at once proceeded to lay siege to Orchomenos, in Arkadia,

to the north of Mantineia. They took it, and then marched on towards the

oligarchic Tegea, a firm ally of Sparta. The Spartans, too, marched

towards Tegea, and took up their position near the temple of Herakles,

and began plundering the Mantineian country. The Argives and Athenians,

together with the Arkadians from Mantineia, met them in the low country

near Mantineia. The Argive force took up a strong position on the steep

side of Mount Artemision, where it would be difficult to attack them,

and whence they might with advantage descend upon the Spartans in the

plain below.

King Agis saw that to assail the allies upon this vantage-ground would

be to court defeat, and yet he must do something. There were ugly

rumours about him in the camp, as well as at Sparta. He was threatened

with a prosecution. It was said against him that the truce he had made

was in itself an act of treason, that he had the Argives in his power

then, and had spared them for some purpose of his own, and had, by

letting them go, enabled them to get help from Athens.

However, for all that they might say of him, he was firm, and led his

army away till he came to a stream on the boundaries of Tegea and

Mantineia, about which the inhabitants of those places were continually

quarrelling. On to whichever territory it might be turned, it would do

considerable damage. Agis began to divert this stream on to the land of

Mantineia, thinking that this would bring the Mantineians, and perhaps

the whole Argive force, down from their place of vantage to stop the

flow of water.

Upon the other side there were murmurs too. ‘Are we to stay here like

pigeons in a rock for ever? See how the Spartans leave their ground!

Will you let them escape us now as you did before? It seems to us there

must be treason amongst our generals. Are they not of the aristocrats,

and oligarchs in secret? For aught we know they may be in correspondence

with the oligarchs of Sparta.’ The Argive generals were weak and

frightened, and knew not how to act. They had no doubt as to the tactics

of the Spartan king, and yet they dare not keep their army waiting in

its present mood. If Alkibiades had but been there, his firm command

would soon have made itself respected, as it will be seen in this story

to have often done. He could do anything with the Argive people, who had

greater faith in him than in their own generals. But he was away in

Argos acting as ambassador, and had no authority to interfere in the

military operations, or the future course of Greek affairs in this

portion of Arkadia might have gone differently for Athens and for

Sparta.

So on that night in June the Argive force, with their allies, descended

from their strong position, whence they could defy the enemy, and

bivouacked upon the plain, ready next day to meet or to pursue him.

The enemy soon returned in marching order, and took up their former post

by the temple of Herakles, determined, if their strategy had not

succeeded, to try to take the Argive position by assault. The strategy,

they found, had succeeded but too well, and, as they descended the

Tegean defile, they discovered their opponents, drawn up in full array,

in the open plain before them. To change from column into line was with

the well-drilled Spartans the work only of minutes, and their adroitness

called forth admiration from Alkibiades, who, unable to get up to them,

was watching from a distance.

He saw the Mantineians posted on the right, with a body of Argives and

Arkadians in the centre, while on the left were the Athenian foot and

his own comrades of the cavalry. He saw the Argives advance in haste and

fury, and the Spartans slowly to the music of their pipers, which kept

them in step together and in perfect order. He saw the Mantineians

charge the left wing of the Spartans grandly, and break their line, and

follow them, as they retreated, to their waggons. He saw with anguish

the Spartan king dealing out destruction on the Athenians and the others

of the Argive force, and about to overwhelm them, when, to his

astonishment and delight, Agis drew off his men and hastened to assist

his left wing, which was being harassed by the Mantineians as it

retreated.

Now was the time for the Athenian horsemen to charge the Spartans in the

rear; now his own cavalry might outflank the king; but there they stood

motionless, demoralized. Both their leaders, Laches—his old friend

Laches—and the other general, were slain. There was no one to encourage

them, no one to lead them, none who was capable of rising to the great

occasion, and they slunk unworthily away.

The Mantineians and the remainder of the Argive host, seeing themselves

abandoned, retreated in good order into Argos.

Thus Alkibiades, in vexation and despair, saw, for a time, his best-laid

plans and hopes frustrated. The Spartans claimed, and rightly claimed, a

victory. By this battle they recovered their renown as the first

military power in Greece, which they had lost at Sphakteria, and their

success threw discredit on the new Argo-Athenian alliance.

What Alkibiades had foreseen and feared soon took place. The oligarchic

faction, which sided with Sparta against Athens, had been growing strong

in Argos for some time. The Spartan success at Mantineia enabled these

oligarchs to effect a peace with their Lakedaimonian friends. Alkibiades

was forced to go back to Athens. The Spartans showed their gratitude to

their friends within the walls of Argos by sending them a thousand

soldiers to assist them. This enabled the Argive aristocracy to

overthrow the democratic government and establish an oligarchy in its

place, which managed to keep itself in power for some months—months

which were marked by atrocious acts of cruelty and outrage.

This sort of government, established and maintained in such a way, upon

the ruins of a popular control, seldom lasts for long. The means by

which it seems to keep itself in existence generally put an end to it by

at length rousing the suffering victims to such a state of rage that

they become willing to risk all in their efforts to shake off the

incubus.

The people of Argos, driven to despair, rose and drove out the tyrants,

slaying a few of them by way of warning to the others. On the news of

this rising reaching Athens, Alkibiades was sent there again to help the

people. He persuaded them, as he had persuaded the citizens at Patrai,

to build walls from the city to the sea. So great was his energy and his

determination that this should be done without delay that he sent for a

small army of masons, carpenters, and workmen of all kinds from Athens

to assist, while he himself took part, encouraging by his words and

presence the whole population, freemen and slaves, women and children,

in the work. The walls had hardly been completed, and he had only just

returned to Athens, when the wisdom of his advice was proved.

In the summer of 416 the oligarchs were found to be at their intrigues

again, inside and out of Argos, and so dangerous did they become that he

had to be sent for in haste from Athens, not merely as ambassador this

time, but in full power as strategos, in command of twenty ships of war.

It was a proud moment for him as he sailed with his fine warships into

the port, where the walls, which he had caused to be built, stretched

right up to Argos. He was obliged to take strong measures against the

intestine enemies of the State. Three hundred of them he carried off and

placed, disabled from doing further mischief, in various islands

dependent upon Athens. And thus, as far as he was able, did he nullify,

or at least minimize, the advantage Sparta gained at Mantineia.

And all this time that he was thus vigorously aiding his country and her

allies by his wise counsel and his strong actions he was leading at home

a life of splendour and pleasure quite unparalleled. No one was so

courted as he—the model of all excellence for young men to imitate. His

dress, his manners, his extravagance, his eccentricities, were the talk

of everyone, and many were the deeds set down to him that he was never

guilty of. The witty sayings, which only the choicer spirits could

appreciate, were passed about amongst them; while his great orations at

the Ekklesia, in spite of a slight lisp, which seemed to sit not

ungracefully on him, moved the people to such a pitch of admiration that

they would often escort him home in triumph afterwards.

Nor was he great in words alone. No general of troops was so active as

he; no one more patient or practical in the supervision of the forces of

the states; no one wiser or clearer-sighted in the council of the

leaders. Nikias and the chief men on the other side ever sought his

advice in serious difficulty. Nor could anyone be found to represent

their country in an embassy where courage and prudence were required so

well as Alkibiades.

The office of the strategi was a great and important one. It combined

the functions of a Minister of War and of Foreign Affairs as well as

those of a Minister of the Interior, besides including the active

executive work of general and admiral, and the management of all the

forces. Alkibiades discharged the arduous duties of his office with zeal

and efficiency. But, his work over, there was a buoyancy about him which

rebounded from restraint; then he threw off all cares, and, underneath a

high ambition, he showed an eagerness for sport and love of amusement.

After a day of toil, when it was his wisdom and advice which had

determined the policy of Athens, he could not keep his boyish spirits

down, or hide a sly contemptuousness of his fellow-men and their

formalities.

Thus this man of indomitable courage and energy, of infinite resources

and ambition, the man to whom statesmen at home looked for guidance,

because of his greater foresight of that which was to be, and foreign

states for help because of his influence and power,—this man, the first

in Athens, the man whom all men knew and most loved and admired,—might

be seen, his serious day’s work done, running through the streets like

any schoolboy on a holiday, crowned with violets and ivy, followed by a

joyous band and the mad music of the oboe and the double flageolet.

He was, indeed, and in spite of all, the best-loved man in Athens. There

was good reason for it. Besides what he had done in public for the

people against their natural enemies, ever on the look-out for

opportunities to get the better of them, there were numberless poor folk

whose pains and sufferings, wants and miseries, his generosity and

kindness had solaced and relieved.

Such pre-eminence above other men cannot exist in this world without

engendering envious serpents. Given a man of more than ordinary parts,

of luck or fortune, and we are sure to find detractors, and delators,

too, as we are equally sure to find some evil mixed with good in almost

everything. And by so much as the hero is the greater than other men,

you are the more sure, if you look deep enough, to find some faults. If

he has more of human nature in him than the common run of ordinary men,

the greater will the certainty become that faults will be discovered,

and anxiously laid hold of, too, by those who know not how to imitate

his virtues.

It was at the end of this year 416, on his return from Argos, that the

snakes first raised their heads and hissed. His greater opponents could

not help admiring him: they were too generous to attack him secretly. It

was one of the democracy who struck the first blow at Alkibiades. A poor

potter named Hyperbolos, a maker of earthen lamps, the butt of

Aristophanes, who, on the death of Kleon, had thought he ought to be

chosen leader of the people, was put forward as the tool of others.

The secret remedy of ostracism had been invented as a last resource if

ever the influence of any individual threatened to make his power

greater than was becoming for a citizen in the democracy. This

instrument had not been used except against the greatest men. When it

was to be put in force no name was mentioned publicly; only a

proposition was moved that it should be put to the vote whether some one

should be banished. In private conversation the promoters of the scheme

canvassed their friends, and pointed out to them who it was that, in

their opinion, ought to go.

Upon this occasion Hyperbolos used all the power of his small malignity

to hit his hated and successful rival. There was considerable risk that

a majority of votes, making up the necessary number, would be given

against the inoffensive Nikias. But Alkibiades, too, was in some danger.

He had naturally the oligarchic faction against him, besides a

considerable portion of the country party; and the railing tongue of the

democratic traitor stirred up the sterner democrats by talking of his

mad caprices, his extravagance, his high birth, his wealth, even his

popularity, as reasons why his presence was dangerous to the state.

With consummate skill the object of this secret blow turned it aside and

made it fall upon his enemy. He arranged with Nikias that none of their

friends whom they could influence should vote against either of them,

but that they should all write the name of Hyperbolos upon the piece of

pottery by which the vote was given. So it happened that poor Hyperbolos

was banished. When the people saw that this two-edged sword had smitten

the man who tried to wield it, and that so formidable a weapon had

struck so mean an object, it was felt to be dishonoured, and was never

used again.

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Book II

‘La plus riche vie, que je sçache, à estre vescue entre les

vivants, comme on dit, et estoffée de plus de riches parties et

désirables, c’est, tout considéré, celle d’Alcibiades.’

MONTAIGNE.