A man met us in the street, coming from the Agora. He was beating his breast as he ran. When I caught him by the arm he stared like a trapped beast. “What is it?” we said. “What news?” He shook his head, as if we had not spoken Greek. “I was at Melos,” he said. “Oh, Zeus, I was at Melos. Now we shall see it here.” He plucked his arm free, and ran on towards his home.
Where the street ran into the Agora, it was plugged at the neck with men trying to shoulder through. As we joined the press, a man coming the other way squeezed out towards us. He stood for a moment, staggered and fell down. “What news?” we shouted at him. He leaned over and vomited stale wine. Then his head lolled round at us. “Long life to you, trierarch. Is this the street for the women?” Lysis said, “This man’s a rower off the Paralos.” He shouted in the fellow’s ear, “Answer me, curse you,” and shook him to and fro.
The man reeled to his feet, muttering, “Aye, aye, sir.”—“What news?” we asked. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, and said, “The Spartans are coming,” and spewed again. When it seemed that all his drink was out of him, we dragged him over to a public water-tap in the street, and drenched his head. He sat on the slab of the fountain, his arms hanging. “I was drunk,” he said. “I spent my last obol, and now you’ve sobered me.” With his face in his hands he wept.
Presently he came partly to himself and said, “I’m sorry, sir. We’ve been at the oar three days, with this ahead of us, bringing the news. The fleet’s destroyed, sir. Someone sold us to Lysander, by our reckoning. Caught on the beach at Goat’s Creek; no help, no cover, nothing. Rubbed out, finished, rolled up like a book.”
“But what were you doing there?” said Lysis. “It’s two good miles from Sestos; there’s no harbour and no supplies. Were you driven aground?”—“No, the fleet made camp there.”—“At Goat’s Creek? Made camp? Are you drunk still?”—“I wish I was, sir. But it’s true.”
He rinsed his face in the fountain, wrung the water from his beard, and said, “We got word Lysander had taken Lampsakos. We followed him up the Hellespont, past Sestos to the narrows. Then we camped at Goat’s Creek. You can see Lampsakos from there.”—“Great Poseidon!” said Lysis. “And Lampsakos can see you.”
“We put out in the morning in battle order, to meet Lysander. But the old fox kept to earth. Next day the same. Then rations ran out. We had to walk over to Sestos market, after we’d beached the ships. Four days this went on. The fourth evening we’d just beached again, when we heard a hail. There was a man riding down from the hills; not a country fellow; a good horse, and a knight’s seat on it. The sun was setting behind him, but I thought, ‘I’ve seen you before.’ There was some young officers looking; all of a sudden they went running as if they were mad, up the road to meet him, shouting out, ‘It’s Alkibiades!’
“They caught on to his feet, his horse, anything they could lay hold of. One or two, I thought they were going to break down and cry. Well, it was always meat and drink to him to be made much of. He asked after this man’s father and that man’s friend; you know, sir, how he never forgot a face; and then he said, ‘Who’s in command?’
“They told him the generals’ names. ‘Where are they?’ he says. ‘Take me to them. They must get off this beach tonight. Has the fleet run mad? Four days now,’ he says, ‘I’ve watched you stick out your arse for Lysander’s toe, and I can’t stand it longer. What a station, by the Dog, to take in face of the enemy. What a camp, look at it; not a guard posted, not a ditch. Look at the men, straggled from here to Sestos. You’d think it was Games Week at Olympia.’
“Someone took his horse, and he went to the generals’ tents. They came out to see what the noise was. They didn’t look as pleased as the young men, not by half. Hardly gave him good evening, and didn’t as much as offer him a drink. Do you know, sir, what it was that shook me first? It was hearing him so civil to them. He was never a man to bear being made light of; he could always give better than he got. He put the case to them about the camp, very quiet and serious. ‘Didn’t you see today,’ he says, ‘the Spartan picket-boats watching your beach? Lysander mans his ships each morning, and keeps them manned till dusk. If he’s waited till now it’s because he can’t believe it. He’s afraid of a trap. When he gets word the men don’t keep camp at night, do you think he’ll wait longer? Not he; I know the man. Every minute you sit here now, you’re staking the fleet and the City with it. Come, gentlemen, you could be in Sestos tonight.’
“They’d kept him standing outside, so there were plenty to listen. I heard General Konon say into his beard, ‘Just what I told them.’ Then Tydeus, one of the new generals, steps out. ‘Thank you kindly, Alkibiades,’ he says, ‘for teaching us our business. You’re the man to do that, we all know. Perhaps you’d like to take the fleet over; or perhaps there’s another of your cup-companions you’d care to leave it to, while you run about Ionia chasing women. What were the Athenians thinking of, I wonder, when they put us in command instead of you? Still, they did it. You’ve had your kick at the ball. Now it’s our turn, so a very good day to you.’
“His colour came up then; but for all that, he kept his head. Cool and slow he spoke, with that drawl of his. ‘I’ve wasted my time,’ he says, ‘and yours too, I can see. Two things I respect Lysander for: he knows how to raise money, and where to spend it.’ Then he turned his back and walked off, before they found their tongues to answer.
“You could hardly get near for the crowd seeing him off. When they brought up his horse, he said, ‘There’s no more I can do, and if I could, I’d see them to Hades first. They’re the losers,’ he said. ‘I’ve still a friend or two across the straits. I could have given Lysander troubles of his own in Lampsakos. I’d only to sound the trumpet on my keep, to have raised three thousand Thracians. They called no man master before, but they fight for me. I’m king in these parts,’ he said. ‘King in all but the name.’
“He sat on his horse, looking out over the water with those wide-open blue eyes of his; then he wheeled and rode off into the hills, where his castle was.
“That night our Old Man on the Paralos stopped all shore leave. So did General Konon, on his eight ships. But the rest went on the same as they’d done before. And the next night, the Spartans came.”
While our minds limped like spent runners behind the tale, he told us of the battle, or the slaughter rather: Lysander’s fleet with its crack rowers racing across at dusk; Konon, keeping alone of the generals his head and his honour, trying to be everywhere at once; ships with half their troops and no rowers; ships with one bank of rowers and no troops. Konon saw the certain end, and got away his little squadron with the Paralos; anything from a wreck is gain, the old sea-tag says. The Spartans did not trouble to follow him. They were content with their harvest: one hundred and eighty sail, all the sea-strength of the Athenians, standing on the beach at Goat’s Creek as barley stands for the sickle.
At last the tale was done; the man talked on, as men do at such times, but it seemed a silence had fallen. Presently Lysis said, “I am sorry I drove your wine out of you. Take this and start again.”
Side by side we walked through the streets, silent, between houses that wept and whispered. Night was falling. I raised my eyes to the High City. The temples stood black and lampless, fading into the darkness of the sky. Their sacristans had forgotten them. It was as if the gods themselves were dying.
Lysis touched my shoulder, saying, “The Medes took it, and wasted it with fire. But next day Athene’s olive had sprouted green.” So we joined hands together, in token that we were men, knowing that the time had come to suffer. Then we parted, he to his wife and I to my father, for it is proper for a man to be with his household at such a time. All night in the streets you could see lighted windows, where those who were sleepless had rekindled the lamps: but on the High City night only, and silence, and the slow turning of the stars.