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.

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.

CONTENTS

BOOK I

BOOK II

BOOK III

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.’

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.’

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.

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.

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]]

[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.

CHAPTER VII