THE MURDER OF THE GENERALS.
All this time a gloom had been settling down over the Athenian people.
The official despatch, which, as giving details of the loss in the late
engagement, was so anxiously expected, did not arrive; but quite enough
information to cause a very general anxiety came to hand in various
ways. Private letters from men serving with the fleet began to be
brought by merchantships; and not a few persons were found who had
talked or who professed to have talked with sailors and marines who had
taken part in the action. These written and oral accounts were indeed
far from being consistent with each other. Some were obviously
impossible; more were presumably exaggerated. But they were all agreed
in one point. Not only had there been a serious loss of ships and men
during the battle, but this loss had been grievously aggravated by the
casualties that had taken place after the battle. It was pretty clear,
unless the whole of these stories were fictitious, that the second loss
had been more fatal than the first.
At last the long expected despatch arrived. It ran somewhat in this
fashion:
“The victory which, by the favor of the gods and the good fortune of the
Athenian people, we lately won over the Spartans and their allies at
the Islands of Arginusæ has turned out to be no less important and
beneficial to the state than we had hoped it would be. The squadron of
the enemy that was blockading the harbor of Mitylene has disappeared:
nor indeed are any of his ships anywhere to be seen. Our fleet, on the
contrary, is stronger than it has been for some years past; and we are
daily receiving overtures of friendship from cities that have hitherto
been indifferent or hostile. But this success has not been achieved
without loss. The late battle was long and obstinately contested, and,
as has been mentioned in a former despatch, not a few of our ships were
either disabled or sunk. We did not neglect the duty of succoring the
crews of the vessels that had met with this ill-fortune, committing to
officers whom we knew to be competent, the task of giving such help and
assigning to them a sufficient number of ships. At the same time we did
not omit to make provision for a pursuit of the enemy. But unluckily
when the battle was but just finished, a storm arose so severe that we
could not either rescue our friends or pursue our enemy. These then
escaped, and those, or the greater part of them perished, having behaved
as brave men toward their country. Lists of those that have so died, so
far as their names are at present known, are sent herewith.”
In this official communication, it will be seen, no blame was laid on
any person. The weather, and the weather alone, was given as the cause
of the disaster that had occurred. But in their private communications
with friends at home the generals were not so reticent. They had
commissioned, they said, Theramenes and Thrasybulus to save the
shipwrecked men. If all that was possible had not been done to execute
this commission it was they and they only who were to be blamed. Such
words, even if they are intended only for the private reading of the
people to whom they are written, seldom fail sooner or later to get out.
In this case so many people were profoundly and personally interested in
the matter that they got out very soon. And, of course, among the first
persons whom they reached were the two incriminated officers, Theramenes
and Thrasybulus. It was a charge, hinted at if not exactly made, which
no man would allow to be made against him without at least an attempt to
refute it. Theramenes, who had come back on leave not many days after
the battle, at once bestirred himself in his own defense. He was an able
speaker, all the more able because he was utterly unscrupulous; and he
had a large following of personal friends and partisans. On the present
occasion he was reinforced by the many citizens who had lost relatives
or friends in the late engagement. These were furious and not without
some cause. What had been at first represented as a great victory had at
length turned out to be as fatal as a great defeat. They loudly demanded
a victim. Somebody, they said, must be punished for so scandalous, so
deadly a neglect. Theramenes had the advantage of being on the spot, and
of being able to guide these feelings in a way that suited his own
personal interests. “I was commissioned,” he said, “to do the work; I do
not deny it. But the charge was given me when it was almost too late to
execute it, and I hadn’t the proper means at hand. I could not get hold
of the ships that were told off for this task, or of the crews who
should have manned them. If one of the ten had come himself to help me,
things might have been different. As it was, the men either could not be
found, or refused to come. A subordinate must not be blamed for failing
in what ought to have been undertaken by a chief in command.”
These representations, in which, as has been seen, there was a certain
measure of truth, had a great effect. An assembly was held to consider
the contents of the second despatch, and at this it was resolved, with
scarcely an opposing voice, that the generals should be recalled. They
were publicly thanked for the victory which they had won, but they were
suspended, at least for the present, in their command, and successors
were sent out to replace them. Conon, as having been shut up at the time
in Mitylene, and being therefore manifestly clear of all blame in the
matter, was continued in office, and another of the ten had died. Eight,
therefore, were left to be affected by the decree. Of these eight two
determined not to run the risk of returning; the other six sailed at
once for home. Of these six Diomedon, about whom something has been said
already, was one.
As soon as was practicable after their arrival at Athens, an assembly
was held and they were called upon for their defence. The chief speaker
against them was Theramenes. His colleague, Thrasybulus, stood by
apparently approving by his presence the charge that was brought but not
opening his mouth. One man among the accused men might have easily
secured his own safety at the expense of his colleagues. If Diomedon had
stood up and recapitulated the advice which he had given in the council
held after the battle; if he had affirmed what none of his fellows
would have been able to deny, “I urged you to make the rescue of the
imperilled crews your first business, to use for it all the means at
your disposal, and to undertake it yourselves,” he must have been
triumphantly acquitted, but he was of too generous a temper thus to save
himself. He chose to stand or fall with his fellows. All, accordingly,
put forward the same defence, and it was in substance this: “We did what
seemed best in our judgment. We detailed for the duty of saving the
crews what we considered to be an adequate force, and put over it men
whom we knew to be competent. If Theramenes accuses us, we do not accuse
him. We believe that he was hindered from doing the duty intrusted to
him by the storm, and that if he had had double the number of ships,
even the whole fleet, at his disposal, he would have been no less
powerless to give the shipwrecked men any effectual help.”
There was a sincerity of tone about their defense which was just the
thing to win favor of such an audience as the Athenian assembly. There
were murmurs indeed. The friends and kinsfolk of the drowned men could
not endure to think that no one would be punished for what they believed
to be a shameful neglect. But the general applause drowned the
dissenting voices, and the friends of the accused began to hope that
they were safe. If there had been only a few more minutes of daylight,
such might have been the result. A show of hands was taken by the
presiding magistrate, and it was believed to be in favor of the accused,
but it was too dark to count; no regular decision could be made; and the
matter had to be adjourned to another meeting of the assembly.
But now came another change in the impulsive, passionate temper of the
people. The next day or the next day but one was the first of the great
family festival of Athens, the Apaturia, a celebration something like
the Christmas Day or the New Year’s Day of the modern world. It was one
of the most cherished, as it was one of the most ancient of the national
festivals. All the great Ionic race, with scarcely an exception, kept
it, and had kept it from times running back far beyond history. The
family annals were now, so to speak, made up, and consecrated by a
solemn association with the past. If a marriage had been celebrated in
the family during the year it was now formally registered; if a son of
the house had reached his majority his name was now entered upon the
roll. These formalities were duly marked by customary sacrificing and
sacrifices were accompanied, as always in the ancient world, by
festivities. But family festivities are apt, as most of us know only too
well, to be marred by melancholy associations. It is delightful to greet
those that remain, but what of those who are gone? And so it had been
year after year, since the day when Athens embarked on the fatal war
which for nearly thirty years drained her resources. So it was, in a
special way, in the year of which I am writing. The men whom Athens had
lost were not hired servants but sons. Every one, the slaves only
excepted, left an empty place in some family gathering. And now for the
first time the city realized the greatness of her loss. The numbers had
been known before; but numbers, however startling, do not impress the
mind like visible facts, and now the visible facts were before the eyes
of all. The streets were filled with men and women in mourning garb,
for the families which had suffered individually assumed it. It seemed
as if almost every passer by had lost a kinsman. There could scarcely
have been any such proportion of mourners, but any uniform garb renders
the impression of being much more numerously worn than is really the
case.
And there can be but little doubt that the demonstration was purposely
exaggerated. For now came in the sinister influence of political strife,
which since the oligarchical revolution of five years before had grown
more than ever bitter and intense. The accused leaders belonged to the
party of moderate aristocrats; a party loyal to the democratic
constitution of Athens, but disposed to interpret its provisions in a
conservative sense. The oligarchy hated them, and Theramenes had been an
oligarchical conspirator before, and was about to be again. And the
extremists on the other side hated them. Between the two a plot was
concocted. Men who had no kinsfolk among the lost soldiers and sailors
were bribed or otherwise persuaded to behave as if they had,[36] to come
into the streets with black clothes and shaven heads, and to swell the
numbers of the mourners, thus increasing the popular excitement.
Strangely enough it was the senate, the upper chamber of the Athenian
constitution that first gave this excitement an expression. At the first
meeting after the festival, Callixenus, a creature of Theramenes--the
man himself was probably too notorious to take an active part--proposed
a resolution which ran as follows:
“For as much as both the parties in this case, to wit, the prosecutor,
on the one hand, and the accused, on the other were heard in the late
assembly, it seems good to us that the Athenian people now vote on the
matter by their tribes, there being provided for each tribe two urns,
and that the public crier make proclamation as follows in the hearing of
each tribe: ‘Let every one who finds the generals guilty of not rescuing
the heroes of the late sea fight deposit his vote in Urn No. 1. Let him
who is of the contrary opinion deposit his vote in Urn No. 2.’
Furthermore it seems good to us, that, if the aforesaid generals be
found guilty, death should be the penalty; that they should be handed
over to the Eleven,[37] and their property confiscated to the state,
excepting a tenth part, which falls to the goddess [Athene].”
The Senate passed this resolution, though there was a strong minority
that protested against it. The assembly was held next day, and
Callixenus came forward again and proposed his resolution as having
received the senate’s sanction.
It was received with a roar of approval from the majority. But there
were some honest men who were not inclined to sanction a proceeding so
grossly illegal, for such indeed it was. One of them, Euryptolemus by
name, rose in his place, and spoke:
“There is an enactment which for many years has been observed by the
people of Athens for the due protection of persons accused of crime. By
this enactment it is provided that every person so accused shall be
tried separately, and shall have proper time allowed him for the
preparation of his defence. Seeing then that the resolution just
proposed to the assembly contravenes this enactment by providing that
the accused persons should be tried altogether and without such
allowance of due time, I hereby give notice that I shall indict
Callixenus its proposer for unconstitutional action.”
A tremendous uproar followed the utterance of these words. “Who shall
hinder us from avenging the dead?” cried one man. “Shall this pedant
with his indictment stand between the Athenian people and their desire
to do justice?” shouted another. But the excitement rose to its height
when a man clad as a mariner forced his way through the crowded meeting,
and struggled by the help of his companions into the _Bema_, the
platform or hustings of the place of assembly.
It was a strange figure to stand in that place from which some of the
famous orators and statesmen of the world had addressed their
countrymen. He was evidently of the lowest rank. His dress was ragged
and soiled. His voice, when he spoke, was rough and uncultured. Yet not
Pericles himself who so often speaking from that place
“Had swayed at will that fierce democracy,”
ever spoke with more effect.
“Men of Athens,” he cried, “I was on the _Cheiron_. I was run down by a
Corinthian ship just before the battle came to an end. The _Cheiron_
sank immediately; I went down with her, but managed to get free, and
came up again to the surface of the water. I saw a meal-tub floating by
me, and caught hold of it. Some ten or twelve men were near me. They
kept themselves up for a time by swimming, but sank one by one. I spoke
to several of them, and bade them keep up their spirits, because the
admirals would be sure to rescue us. No help came. At last only one was
left. He was my brother-in-law. I made him lay hold of the other side of
the meal-tub; but it was not big enough to keep us both up. He let go of
it again. He said to me ‘Agathon’--that is my name--‘you have a wife and
children; I am alone. Bid them remember me; and tell the men of Athens
that we have done our best in fighting for our country, and that the
admirals have left us to perish.’”
Was the man telling the truth, or was he one of those historic liars
that have made themselves famous or infamous for all time by the
magnitude of the fictions that they have invented just at the critical
time when men were most ready to accept them.[38]
Whether it was true or false, the story roused the people to absolute
fury. Thousands stood up in their places and shook their fists at the
accused, and at the orators who had spoken in their favor, while they
screamed at the top of their voices, “Death to the generals! death to
the murderers!”
A momentary silence fell upon the excited crowd when a well-known orator
of the intense democratic party threw himself into the hustings.
“I propose that the names of Euryptolemus and of all those who have
given notice of the indicting Callixenus be added to the names of the
accused generals, and be voted upon in the same way for life and death.”
The speaker added no arguments; and the roars of approval that went up
from the assembly showed sufficiently that no arguments were needed. The
advocates of constitutional practice were cowed. It was only too plain
that to persist would surely be to meet themselves the fate of the
accused. Euryptolemus was a brave man, and as we shall soon see, did not
intend to desert his friends; but for the present he gave way. “I
withdraw my notice,” he cried, reflecting doubtless that he could renew
it when the people should become more ready to listen to reason and
justice. But there was still another constitutional bulwark to be thrown
down. The presiding magistrates refused to put the motion to the
assembly. Their chief (or chairman as we should call him) rose in his
place. He was pale and agitated, and his voice could not be heard beyond
the benches nearest to him when he said, “The motion of Callixenus is
against the laws, and we cannot put it to the assembly.”
“They refuse! they refuse!” was the cry that went from mouth to mouth.
Again the rage of the multitude rose to boiling point, and again the
popular orator saw his opportunity.
“I propose,” he said, appearing again in the hustings, “that the names
of the presiding magistrates be added to those of the accused in the
voting for life and death.”
A shout of approval more vehement than ever greeted this announcement.
Once more the policy of concession, or shall we say of cowardice
prevailed. The magistrates conversed a few moments in hurried whispers,
and then advanced to the railings in front of their seats. It was
immediately seen that they had yielded, and loud applause followed.
“Hail to the popular magistrates! Hail to the friends of the people!”
was the universal cry. But one was still sitting in his place. His
colleagues turned back to bring him. They talked, they gesticulated,
they laid hold of him by the arms; they were trying to force him out of
his seat. He heeded them not; to all persuasion he returned the same
answer: “I am set to administer the laws, and will do nothing that is
contrary to them.” The most of the house could, of course, hear nothing
of what was being said; but they could see plainly what had happened.
“Socrates refuses! Socrates refuses!” was now the cry, followed by
shouts of “Death to Socrates!” “Death to the blasphemer! death to the
atheist!”
The philosopher sat unmoved, and his colleagues made no further attempt
to persuade him. They took what was, perhaps, the only possible course
under the circumstances--for they had not all the martyr-like temper of
Socrates--and put the question without him. It was carried by a large
majority.
The presiding magistrate, having announced the result of the vote, went
on: “Seeing that it has seemed good to the Athenian people to try the
generals accused of negligence in saving the lives of citizens, the said
generals are hereby put upon their trial. If they, or any citizen on
their behalf, wish to address the assembly, let them or him speak.”
It might have been thought that the furious crowd which had been ready
to overpower with violence the advocates of constitutional practice
would have howled down any who dared to advocate so unpopular a cause.
But it was not so. The majority, having swept away, as they thought,
the trammels of technicality, in their eagerness for justice, had no
wish to disregard justice by refusing a hearing to persons on their
defense. Whatever the faults of the Athenian democracy, it was at least
ready to hear both sides. When therefore Euryptolemus rose to address
the assembly on behalf of the generals, an instantaneous silence
followed; nor was he interrupted during the delivery of his speech
except, it may be, by occasional murmurs of approval. He spoke as
follows:
“Men of Athens, I have three things to do now that I address you. First,
I have to blame in some degree my dear friend and kinsman Pericles, and
my friend Diomedon; second, I have to plead somewhat on their behalf;
third, I have to give you such advice as will in my judgment best
advantage Athens. I blame them because they, through their generous
temper, have taken upon themselves the fault which, if it exists, lies
upon others. For indeed what happened after the battle was this:
Diomedon advised that the whole fleet should proceed to the relief of
the disabled ships and their crews. Herasinides counselled that the
whole fleet should be sent in pursuit of the enemy. Meranylus declared
that both duties might be discharged together, part being sent against
the enemy, and part to help the shipwrecked men. And this last course
was actually taken. Forty-seven ships were told off for this duty.
Three, that is, from each of the eight divisions, ten belong to private
captains, ten that were from Samos, and three that belonged to the
commander-in-chief. And three ships were committed to the charge of
Thrasybulus and Theramenes, the very men who now bring these charges
against the accused. Yet these men I do not even now, on behalf of the
generals, myself accuse. I allow that the violence of the storm
prevented them from executing this order which had been given them.
“So far then, men of Athens, do I blame the accused, and I do plead for
them. And now let me venture to give you some advice. Give these men
time, if it be but one day only, to make their defence. You know that
there is yet a form of law by which it is enacted: ‘If any person hath
aggrieved the people of Athens, he shall be imprisoned and brought to a
trial before the people; and in case he be convicted, he shall be put to
death and thrown into the pit, his goods and chattels to be confiscated
to the state, reserving a tenth part for the goddess.’ By this law try
the accused. Give to each a separate day and try them in due order. So
will you judge them according to the law, and not seem, as verily you
will seem if you adopt the resolution of Callixenus, to be allies of the
Lacedæmonians, by putting to death the very men who have taken twenty of
their ships.
“Why indeed are you in such vehement haste? Are you afraid to lose your
hold of life and death? That right no one doubts or threatens. Should
you not rather be afraid lest you put an innocent man to death? One man
do I say, nay many innocent men? And lest, afterwards repenting of your
deed, you shall reflect how ill and unjustly you have acted? Forbid it,
ye gods, that the Athenians should do any such thing. Take care,
therefore, I implore you, that you, being successful, do not act as they
often act, who are on the brink of despair and ruin. Only those who are
without hope insult the gods; yet somehow you will insult them, if
instead of submitting to them on points that are subject to their will
alone, you condemn those men who failed because it was the pleasure of
the gods that they should fail. You would do more justly if you honor
these men with crowns of victory rather than visit them with this
punishment of death.”
A visible effect was produced by this speech. That the republic should
put to death its successful generals almost in the moment of victory
seemed to many to be the very height of folly, even of impiety. The gods
had favored these men. To lay hands upon them would be an insult to
heaven. But supposing they had erred, would it be well for the state to
deprive itself of the services of its most skillful servants? This
seemed the common sense view. The question was: would it prevail against
the sticklers for law, those who were hardened by the sense of personal
loss, and the unscrupulous partisans who were ready to seize any pretext
for destroying political opponents? The voters filed past the balloting
urns, and dropped their votes as they passed. No one could guess what
the result would be, for no one could watch more than one of the ten
pairs of urns--a pair to each tribe--which were placed to receive the
suffrages. The process took no little time, and then when it was
finished, there was the counting, also a long and tedious process. It
was almost dark when the tables were finished.
In the midst of a profound silence the presiding magistrate stood up. It
was now dark, and his figure was thrown into striking relief by the
lamps with the help of which the votes had been counted. He read the
numbers from a small slip of paper.[39] “There have voted,” he said,
“for condemnation 3254, for acquittal 3102.”
The sensation produced by the announcement was intense. Not a few who
had voted ‘guilty’ already half repented of what they had done. Indeed
the reaction which ended in the banishment and ultimately the death by
starvation of the author of the proposal may be said to have begun at
that moment. The general excitement rose to a still higher pitch when
the officers of the Eleven, the magistrates to whose custody condemned
criminals were handed, were seen making their way, lighted by slaves
holding torches, to the place where the accused were sitting. There was
not one of the six whose features were not familiar to many in the
assembly. More than one had tendered distinguished service to Athens;
and one, Pericles, son of the great statesman by Aspasia, bore a name
which no Athenian could pronounce without some emotion of pride and
gratitude. It so happened that it was he on whom the officers laid
hands. Something like a groan went up from the crowd; but it was too
late to undo what they had done, and it was too early for the repentance
that had already begun to work to have any practical effect. The six
were led off to immediate execution.
Callias anxious to say a few words of farewell to his friend and kinsman
Diomedon had hurried round, as soon as he heard the announcement of the
numbers, to the door by which he knew the condemned would be taken from
the place of assembly. The president of the Eleven who was conducting
the matter in person, as became an occasion so important, allowed a
brief interview.
The young man was so overcome with grief that he could only throw
himself into the arms of his friend and cling to him in speechless
agony. Diomedon, on the contrary, was perfectly calm and collected. “My
son,” he said, “this has ended as badly as I thought that it would--you
will remember what I said to you after the battle. For myself, this that
I am about to suffer is scarcely a thing to be lamented. It is hard
indeed to have such a return for my services to Athens; and I would
gladly have served her again. It has not so seemed good to the
Athenians. Let it be so. I am delivered from trouble to come. I would
not have fled from them willingly, but if my countrymen compel me, why
should I complain? That at least Socrates has taught me not to do. And
this day has at least brought this good, that no one can doubt hereafter
that he believes what he says. For you, my son, I have but one word. Do
not despair of your country. A grateful child pays his dues of nurture
even to an impassive mother. And now farewell!”
An hour afterwards he and his colleagues were lying mangled corpses at
the bottom of the pit.[40]
FOOTNOTES:
[36] Xenophon, who was probably in Athens at the time, positively
asserts that this was done, and I cannot think that the arguments of Mr.
Grote countervail his authority.
[37] The “Eleven” were commissioners of police who had, besides the
charge of the guardians of public order, the care of the prisoners, and
the custody of criminals.
[38] One of the most notorious instances in modern times was that of the
Tartar who after the battle of the Alma invented the news that
Sebastopol was taken. The report was almost universally believed in
England for some days, and the contradiction of it caused the bitterest
disappointment.
[39] Paper made from the rind of the _papyrus_, a reed which grew in the
Nile and which the Egyptians knew by the name of _Byblos_ (hence our
‘bible’). Parchment in its present form did not become common till much
later than this time (even B. C. 150), though skin seems to have been
used for writing. For ordinary purposes paper was used.
[40] Mr. Grote says that the condemned generals drank hemlock but it is
evident from the report of Euryptolemus which is substantially taken
from Xenophon’s report that the mode of execution for persons condemned
under such charges as that brought against the generals was by being
thrown into the Pit. This place was called the _Barathron_ and was
within the city walls and was a deep pit with hooks fastened into the
walls. The officer in charge of it was called “The Man of the Pit.”