Chapter 20 from my novel, "Rise of the Wolf" WARNING, THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS BAD LANGUAGE AND SEXUAL REFERENCES, NOT SUITABLE OR READERS UNDER 16 YEARS.
20
Piraeus, Athens
‘Have you heard about Pericles?’
‘Is he dead?’
‘No, you fool.
He wants to get his own back on the Megarians for sending their ships to
Sybota. So he’s dug up some sacrilege about Megarian settlers who cultivated
some sacred Demetian field or other, and has accused the Megarians of sacrilege
… Sacrilege I ask you!’ The older man puckered his lips and shook
his head disapprovingly as Epaphroditos went on... ‘He’s decreed … decreed I say,’ he repeated
incredulously, ‘a punitive and ill measured punishment,’ Epaphroditos continued
after sipping his beer… ‘forbidding them to trade or have access to any of the
ports or markets of the Empire. What’s he up to, I ask you, eh? … A lot of us
do good trade with the Megarians.’
‘It’ll be war
with the Spartans then,’ said Kytheion, sipping his beer, thanking the gods he
was too old and too lame to be of any use in a war… ‘You watch if I’m not right…’
He looked across the agora and hissed contemptuously under his breath with a
scowl, ‘Here comes Delomenos the tallyman, sniffing about like a dog looking
for turds to eat.’ The old man smiled
with self-satisfaction at his quip, showing off his only tooth, a single upper
incisor that was as yellow as a piss stain on linen. ‘He took a whore as his
woman … just like Pericles did. Only he lives with his wife and the whore. No standards, these
tallymen.’
‘It does seem to
be the fashion these days,’ Epaphroditos replied as he gave Delomenos a
despising look over the brim of his wine goblet.
‘Tits like
Aphrodite’s arse cheeks, and fucked by half the men in Munychia by all
accounts…’ He paused to punctuate. ‘She’s
working her way through the other half.’
They laughed.
They watched
Delomenos in his nice cotton chiton and rich blue himation, with
his little entourage of minions, and civil slaves; feeling all powerful like a
great statesman as he strutted about the agora among the lowborn fishermen,
merchants, sailors, artisans and masons … the backbone of Athens as Kytheion
liked to think of his brother Piraeans. He despised the tallyman, everyone did,
and yet they all crawled to him like whimpering children on their bellies. It
was revolting!
‘It’s going to
hurt trade,’ Epaphroditos commented, referring to the Megarian Decree. ‘He
brings in these mad laws to cause them
a problem without giving a second thought to how it affects honest merchants
like your son.’
The old man
nodded. ‘Aye. Them all high up on the Hill, drinking fine wine from gold cups,
shitting on us down here working ourselves to death to keep them in comfort.
‘I knew
something like this would happen. Did I not say so, Kytheion? When I said that
an alliance with Corcyra would bring ill fortune to Athens…’
‘You did, Epaphroditos
… you did indeed.’ He took another swallow from his cup and took another
sweeping look across the busy market. ‘I thought you were too busy up at the strategoi to be rubbing shoulders with
the likes of us.’
‘I still have my
interests here. I won’t be in office forever, Kytheion.’
Kytheion
snorted. ‘What are they saying up there, anyway? … All these decrees and
revenues, when’s it going to stop, Epaphroditos, eh? … Don’t they know they’re
cutting our limbs off. You straddle our world and theirs. Can you not make them
see how things are down here?’
Epaphroditos
shook his head with feigned sympathy. ‘I know your troubles, old friend, and I
have told them, but they will not hear me. I have no influence, old friend, my
family name means nothing anymore, not for a hundred years. I’m just as worried
as everyone else, Kytheion. I too do trade with the Megarians. The
Lakedaemonians too. And when the Spartans get to hear about the decree, what
then, eh? Will they decide to close their
ports to us in retaliation? I do good
commerce with them. My ship puts in twice a year at Gytheion. Their ironware
and bronze is second to none. Everyone wants Lakonian pots and pans, and
weapons. A Lakonian made sword cost’s twice as much as a slave. All the
aristocrats want them. I earn very well out of the goods I get from there.
Quality, Kytheion…’
Kytheion huffed
and watched Delomenos for a moment, waylaid by angry merchants who had heard
about the embargo against Megarian merchants. ‘They’re upset about it,’ he
mused.
Epaphroditos
sipped his beer.
‘Thalysios lost
two of his ships in a storm,’ Kytheion said changing the subject. ‘Two ships
too many,’ he added. ‘He owes money everywhere…’ He sipped. ‘The poor man’s
ruined. Utterly ruined. He came to me to borrow money. Alas, I am not a money
lender, and were I, I would not take such a bad risk. The poor man practically
begged me. It was all very unpleasant. Very embarrassing. He has a ship for
sale. A shrewd man could buy it cheap before word got out. Desperate men always
sell cheap for fast money to keep the collectors from their door.’
Epaphroditos
smelled an opportunity.
‘News isn’t out
yet. He wants to keep things quiet for as long as possible, hoping to get a
good price and raise enough to pay his debts before they find out about the
loss of his ships. It’s crewed by good men. Thalysios is always careful who he
hires.’
‘How much does
he owe?’
‘A quarter
talent is what he told me.’
Epaphroditos
nodded. ‘He’ll never raise a quarter talent from one ship.’
Kytheion drained
his cup and stood up. ‘I need to make water … then, my friend, I need to go
home and enter a beautiful slave girl I brought back from Delos, my prick won’t
wait a moment longer, so until tomorrow.’
‘Until
tomorrow,’ returned Epaphroditos.
Kytheion smiled
and staggered away, practically dragging his lame right leg.
The serving
slave came with a full jug of beer and left it on the table. He watched the
progress of the tallyman. More distressed merchants and shopkeepers were
haranguing him.
‘I sense the
Athenians are not happy,’ came a voice from behind him.
‘They’re complaining
because all goods from Megara are now contraband,’ Epaphroditos said as Pheidon
sat at the table beside him. ‘Pericles has issued an edict that all Megarian
goods are to be seized and destroyed, and the sale of Megarian goods is now
illegal anywhere in the Empire.’ He cocked his head to the complaining
merchants swamping the tallyman and said: ‘They probably have warehouses filled
with Megarian textiles and wine. ‘That prick-stroking Pericles will make whores
and beggars of honest men, and nobles of whores and cutthroats,’ Epaphroditos
concluded bitterly.
Pheidon poured
beer into Epaphroditos’ cup, then filled the cup Kytheion had drunk from. ‘Do
the worries of these lowborn fisherman and pot-makers concern you so much as
you seem to make out?’ Pheidon said quietly, pushing the cup in front of Epaphroditos.
‘It’s always been like that. You know that. That’s why you went to Delphi to
see my brother.’
They watched as
the angry shopkeepers demanded recompense for Megarian goods they had been
ordered to surrender for destruction, all speaking at once, their angry voices
carried across the agora, attracting attention from the citizens going about
their business. The tallyman tried to reassure them, promising to take their
grievances to the highest authorities. One of the shopkeepers demanded all the
levies he had paid on Megarian goods to be refunded to him, since he was no
longer allowed to sell them, and then they all demanded their levies to be
refunded. For a moment, Epaphroditos thought the shopkeepers might kill
Delomenos … for a moment, so did Delomenos.
‘Pericles has
sent more money to the One Eye,’ Epaphroditos told him.
‘How much
money?’
‘I don’t know. A
lot. Enough to pay mercenaries or buy weapons, or maybe both. He’s preparing
for war. Making plans for the citizens of Attica to be brought into the city if
Sparta invades. And he has warships located in strategic positions, and the
fortified outposts along the Attican coast have been reinforced with men.’
‘What’s the plan
with the One Eye?’
Epaphroditos
casually scanned the agora again. ‘I do not know. Pericles is keeping
everything to do with him to himself. The money he sent came from the private
funds of merchants and aristocrats, and there is nothing official concerning Amyklos.’
He sipped his drink. ‘Pericles usually sends him just enough money to keep his belly
full, keeping him in need like a tamed dog until he has use of him. Well, now
he must have use for him, because he sent him more than money for wine and
whores.’
Pheidon stood
up. ‘I’ve left your money in the usual place.’ He walked away without saying
another word.
Epaphroditos
sipped his beer and continued watching the near riot around the tallyman.
‘Tell me, my young friend,’ Socrates
began as they sat in the warm sunshine on the Kolias Promontory, looking out
across the gulf, enjoying the fresh sea wind blowing in their faces, and
through Socrates’ thick mop of soft unkempt hair. ‘Does the slave who loves his
master, serve his master better because he loves his master, or because he is
simply a conscientious and loyal slave, who knows his place?’
Alcibiades
considered the question. ‘He would serve his master more happily from a
position of love, than he would from the other,’ Alcibiades replied cautiously.
‘A slave who loves his master will be a more willing slave than one who
despises his master.’
Socrates nodded.
‘Then the slave who despises his master will be less conscientious?’
‘Yes.’
‘So he would do
less for his master?’
Alcibiades
nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘So the pleasure
of love, then, in your view, Alcibiades, is greater than the fear of pain … or
even death. If as you say, the slave who loves his master does more, when the
other sort does less, an austere master would put that slave to the whip, or
sell him, or even kill him.’
Alcibiades
scratched his head. ‘I suppose so…’ He was uncertain.
Socrates nodded.
‘Then, is it reasonable to assume, that, a slave who loves his master might
receive a reward for his loyalty?’
‘Yes. I reward
my slaves for their loyalty.’
Socrates looked
at the dark sails on the horizon for a moment. ‘Now, Alcibiades. Let us for a
moment suppose that the slave who loves his master is lazy, but the slave who
despises his master is dutiful and works hard, but he despises his master none
the less. Should his master then reward this slave who hates him, but works
hard for him, and punish the slave who is lazy, but loves him?’
Alcibiades
looked quizzically at him. This was one of Socrates’ precipices. ‘He should
punish the lazy slave and reward the hardworking slave,’ he said properly.
‘I see,’ said Socrates,
who had expected such an answer. ‘Now then. Let us suppose that the master also
loves this lazy slave, and despises equally the hard working slave. Should he
still punish the lazy slave he loves, and reward the hardworking slave he
despises?’
‘A man cannot
fail to be influenced by his feelings, Socrates. The slave owner is faced with
an impossible dilemma.’
‘Why so, Alcibiades?
Is it not a simple matter of doing the right thing, and staying to it
regardless of feelings or consequences?’
‘It is difficult
to bring harm or injury to someone you love. To punish the beloved slave would
break that bond.’
‘Yet he is an
idle so and so, Alcibiades. Does it not vex you that your beloved slave takes
advantage of your affections and good nature, while he burdens another with his
duties, while he is simply allowed to laze about in idleness when the mood
takes him? His duty as a slave is to serve his master’s commands. Not to do as
he pleases, and become contemptuous and disrespectful. This is how it is with
overindulgence, Alcibiades.’
Alcibiades
looked at him. ‘Are you rebuking me, Socrates?’
Socrates glared
at him. ‘Yes I am.’
Alcibiades
blinked. ‘It’s only those who are older than I who accuse me of
overindulgences.
‘Is pleasure so
wrong?’ he went on defensively. ‘Youth and pleasure are brother and sister –
husband and wife. Erastes and eromenos…’
‘A man grows
tired of an over familiar wife, and an overbearing sister very quickly,’ said Socrates,
drawing from his own experience with his own wife, and his two wayward sons.
‘But with moderation, and the diversions of duty to separate them, the reunions
are all the more joyous, and beneficial. Overindulgence does your reputation no
good. It attracts unwelcome attention and harsh criticisms that can only damage
your family name.’
Alcibiades
laughed dismissively. ‘They can call me what they like, and think on me as they
will, I care not.’
‘Clearly so, and
it upsets me to say it,’ Socrates replied evenly. ‘Everything you do is not so
much reflected on you, as it is on your guardian Pericles, and your brother,
who is a good and solid young fellow who loves you.
‘Pericles has raised
you both as his own sons and yet you bring him disgrace. Should he punish you, Alcibiades,
by sending you once again out of the city into the countryside, and put you
away from the glare of his enemies, who would use any means available to ruin
him?
‘Your
drunkenness, and your debauchery,’ Socrates went on angrily, ‘can only be
described as disgraceful ¼ indiscrete, scandalous, and at
times an affront to public decency…’
Alcibiades
couldn’t look at him. Even the lash could not sting, or cut so deeply than his
beloved teacher’s criticism and anger. He felt utterly ashamed as Socrates went
on, with unrelenting harshness:
‘You are no
longer a carefree boy, but a young man, and with manhood comes
responsibilities. And when you are a member of the highest family at Athens,
then it is more than responsibility … It’s duty to behave in a manner as to
court admiration instead of scandalous shame…’
‘Duty!?’ Alcibiades retaliated
rebelliously. ‘And what if I do not want these responsibilities that come with
such heavy burdens as duty? I did not ask for them,’ he ranted, jumping to his
feet, he started stomping back and forth like a precocious child throwing a
tantrum, his hands flying like spooked birds through the air as he exploded in
a fit of self-righteous rebellion, ‘Am I not my own man?! Why should I
sacrifice all that I am for duty I did not seek out or ask for?! Why should I
do anything I do not wish to do without remonstration from the one I respect
above all others!? He who shuns tradition and wealth?’ he gazed red faced at
Socrates. ‘Does wealth not bring the privilege of choice? Is my life not my
own? Duty!’ he laughed. ‘What reason have I to think of duty?’
Socrates stood
up and pointed to the gleaming jewel of marble, and ornamented stone that is
Athens, secure behind her impregnable walls. ‘Look there, Alcibiades,’ he said
calmly. ‘Do you need more reason than that?’
Alcibiades
looked upon the wonders of Athens, bright and colourful.
‘Behold your
mother, Alcibiades … see how wondrous she is. What liberty she gives her sons
that they might shame themselves under her very gaze by asking why they should
be dutiful to her. Does she not shelter you from the enemies who covet the
splendour she casts upon you? Do not ask me why you’re so burdened with the
weight of your ancestors. I’m merely a humble man of humble origin,’ he said in
an attempt at modesty. But there was nothing modest about Socrates, who was
egotistical, argumentative, and an outright genius… ‘I know nothing of such
lofty elevations. But I know I would die for my mother before I shamed her as
you have shamed her.’
Alcibiades felt
his rebuke like a punch to his guts. ‘You’re a cruel man, Socrates. And however
lofty my origins, you are much loftier. And I would offend God himself before I
offended thee. Will you forgive me the shame I have brought you?’
Socrates
laughed. ‘Now you mock me, you insolent boy. I welcome controversy like a
fledgling bird welcomes his flying feathers. But you owe nought to me. What you
owe, you owe to Athens, and they day shall come when the Athenians look to
Alcibiades as they looked to Themistocles.’
Alcibiades noted
he ambiguously did not say Pericles. It was well known that Socrates was
opposed to the recent escalation of hostilities with the Peloponnesians. He had
already stated Pericles had set the Athenian Empire on a course of war with
Sparta and her allies. Nothing was worse in Socrates’ eyes, than Hellenes
fighting Hellenes.
‘You must
consider your guardian, and his many kindnesses to you and your brother.’
They could not
have been more different. The aristocratic Alcibiades Kleiniou Skambónidés, son
of Kleinias. The young man was a tall elegant Adonis, whose beauty was known
and desired throughout the city. Often plagued by men offering fellatio, and
women offering to bare his sons. It was all far too much at times. He was flocked
by superficial and insincere friends who dined and whored at his expense. The
pretty crowd is what Socrates called them, pretty in looks, ugly in their
souls.
‘I will try my
best not to disappoint him in the future, Socrates.’
‘Disappointment
is brief. Ruin is a millstone. So look to preserving yourself, Alcibiades. Find
virtue, and charity in yourself. If the people like you, they’ll forgive your
many slights. Take it from one who knows.’
They walked
along the outside of the mighty Phaleric Wall towards the fortified north gate
into the city, following behind some freeborn peasants leading a mule hitched
to an empty cart.
Socrates looked
at the breath-taking monuments on the hills of Athens behind the city walls. He
considered the huge Temple of Athena, which outshone them all, when Alcibiades
unexpectedly said:
‘You make a lot
of people uncomfortable with your manner and your discourses. Sometimes I fear
for your safety…’
Socrates was
delighted to hear it. It appealed to the arrogant bombast in him, and his
controversial nature. ‘Should I then supplicate myself to them, and ply them
with flattery and platitudes until they are intoxicated on them, as you so
often are on wine?’
‘Now you’re
being flippant. I would never advocate such a thing to you. But as you tend my
well-being, it is also my duty to tend yours, and I worry for you … we all do.’
Socrates
launched into one of his fast arrogant dialogues, and he vented relentlessly:
‘That’s because they envy me, these men of whom you speak. And envy, my young
friend; as I have often told you, is but an ulcer of the soul. And such an
ulcer can only make them hate me as much as I am contemptuous of them. Because
they will have me tamed like a dog, or obedient and veiled like a woman to
their commands, but woe to me should I bark the wrong words, or piss against
the wrong tree.
‘I would die
before I let them harness me like an ox to their plough.
‘They are kings
in their homes, but slaves to their vanity nonetheless. For them truth is a
thing to twist and misshape into lies and corruptions to suit their own
ambitious ends and vanity. And that above all feeds their hatred of me; for in
me they see truth they cannot corrupt, for my truth is based on the most
thorough examination of every aspect of it. For truth is a science, Alcibiades.
And like the wind, it cannot be harnessed to make a man fly. Truth is an ocean
with many depths. It is not simply a perception of the eye, or the ear or the
unravelling of rumours. One must carry truth as a warrior carries his shield.
One must wield it as he wields his sword, and one must die for it, as he would
die for his beloved homeland.
‘For some men,
truth is a burden they cannot carry, Alcibiades. So weighty is it upon them,
they must shed its corners to make it fit them, and alter it to make it suit
them, and like a fine robe they’ll wear it, and men will wonder at its dazzle,
but the lies woven into it will fade and fray and soon enough all will see that
lies make a poor thread. Such men will never know the purity of truth’s cloth.
So they hate me, because I remind them of their own deficits. I show them that
even a wealthy man can live a virtuous and pious life.
‘They make
themselves important because they have power and wealth enough to surround
themselves with flatterers to feed their self-admiration with the necessary
compliments and courtesies that gives them sustenance as blood sustains the
leech.
‘They are too
weak to accept in themselves, what the enlightened such as I already know of
them.
‘They believe
themselves to be perfect in all the virtues, and authorities in all the
vices...’
‘And you are
perfect I suppose?’ Alcibiades interjected.
Socrates pointed
up to the temple of Athena. ‘Look, Alcibiades. Does your guardian not make the
house of Athena the envy of the world?’
‘Yes. Yes he
does.’
‘And when you
see our marvellous temple to Pericles’s vanity and Athena’s modesty, do you see
in it, perfection?’
Alcibiades
looked up at the temple in the distance dominating the Athenian skyline, the coloured
friezes vivid against the white of the marble, and the powdery blue of the sky.
‘Yes I do,’ he said quietly, with a surge of pride.
‘And what say
you of it, Alcibiades?’
‘The aesthetics
are without blemish, and beyond compare,’ he replied. ‘It is a true wonder, and
it pleases the eye from every aspect,’ he added.
Socrates smiled
like a spider with a fly in its web. ‘Yet it is as crooked as an old hag’s
back.’
Alcibiades was
shocked, his brows pulled together.
‘Perfection is
an illusion, Alcibiades,’ Socrates went on to explain, drawing the metaphysical
world into the physical one with his usual eloquence. ‘It is an illusion
created by men because what pleases the eye, also pleases the heart, and these
powerful men of who we speak, believe in their conceit, that what pleases the
mortal hearts of men, must also please the immortal hearts of the gods. Yet the
gods are as fickle and argumentative as we mortals. So tell me my friend,’ Socrates
went on. ‘How can something be perfect if there is not a straight line upon
it? Perfection is myth,’ he added.
‘Those citizens,’ he went on as they walked, ‘dislike me because when they look
upon my imperfect self, they look upon something greater than they are. Did not
the Pythia say as much? They dislike me because, unlike them, I do not
consider myself unflawed. Yet I am closer to virtue than they are, because I do
not consider virtue as some consider a commodity, to be bought and sold. If a
man wears a fine robe, and is carried about on a fine litter, it does not say
he is virtuous … merely that he is wealthy … I do not say he is not virtuous
either. I only say virtue is intangible. And that, Alcibiades is why they fear
me … they know I see them for what they really are.’
‘They are
dangerous, Socrates. And they are worried that when the war comes, you will
cause trouble for them by persuading the Boule not to vote in favour of
my guardian, despite you being his friend.’
‘His friend am
I?’ Socrates smiled.
‘It is how he
would have it. Honest Socrates, he calls you. A man who will give you plain
truth, and that’s what they fear. Because everyone knows that Socrates cannot
tell a lie.’
Socrates did not
respond.
‘When you go to
the afterlife, what will you say to him below to account for your life, Socrates?
If you oppose my guardian, and the Spartans invade us?’
‘That’s an
interesting question. May I consider it?’
‘Of course.’
‘You see it is a
difficult question, because one must assume that there is an afterlife to
attend, and that the lord of the dead is the final judge as we are told he is.
And if we are to consider these things as fact, simply because we are told so,
then we must also consider that they do not exist, and that on the final breath
eternal darkness descends, with neither thought nor dream to accompany it…’
‘I would sooner
you didn’t consider it quite so deeply,’ said Alcibiades, who was feeling the
cold hand of mortality more keenly than someone his age should.
‘But it is an
interesting question, Alcibiades. Because it poses the idea of preparing a
statement to deliver to Hades and the judges in the hope that they will hear it
and judge me favourably. But it also poses the question of whether there is an
afterlife. I for one cannot say with any certainty one way or the other beyond
what my heart tells me, and the heart is a poor judge of these things.’ He
paused. ‘It is true, I have worshipped at the temple of Hades, and even then I
told him I had doubts to his existence, but asked his pardon of me nonetheless
for having such doubts. But mine is a questioning mind, and I am afraid where
the gods are concerned, I have seen little that convinces me of their reality.
Some say that when lightning strikes, it is Zeus. I say when lightning strikes,
it is the weather, and the weather is a natural thing. From whence it comes,
and by what mechanisms it is created, I cannot say. But as our ancestors once
lived in caves like animals, without tools or laws, I know that one day these
mysteries will be conquered, if we do not allow religion to keep us backwards.’
Alcibiades had
never heard Socrates speak so frankly about his religious beliefs before. It
was no secret he was a doubter, but he rarely said why.
‘Then I must
consider that I am wrong, and lightning really is from Zeus, and I must beg his
pardon too, for my doubts. But I do not think I am wrong.’
‘Still, I would
like to hear what you would say.’
‘I would stand
before the great judges in their cold and misty caverns,’ Socrates began, ‘and
when Hades puts the question to me to account for my life, I can at least be
prepared in my answers as far as this: “I tried to be a virtuous man, I lived
the life of a pious man, and I passed on my thoughts to those who would hear
them without making a charge of money or gift to them. I gave bread to the
poor, and did not consider a slave less than a freeborn aristocrat, and was
always mindful of my own humanity towards others, both human and animal, taking
naught but what I needed for my survival.” I’ll say as well, “although I tried
to be pious, and I tried to be virtuous, and I tried to be humane at every
point of my life, I was none of these things. Because I had the weakness of
being a man and not a worm, who is both pious and virtuous in his lowly station
beneath the earth, never aspiring beyond the sum of his purpose.”’ He looked at
the Acropolis. ‘So let my imperfect virtues hang like vapour through time, as Pericles’s
imperfections will remain in stone.’
‘But to the eye,
the temple will for all time appear perfect, Socrates.’
‘As shall I, Alcibiades.’
It was busy under the Stoa of
Peisianax at the northern end of the agora. A number of citizens were
shading beneath it, strolling up and down and standing about in small cliques,
deep in discussion about the worsening crisis. Socrates spotted Euripides, lost
in debate with three men wearing senatorial robes, his hands speaking as much
for him as his words as he put his passion into his heated discourse.
Socrates noticed
two men sporting long hair spliced into distinctive plats; one had his massed
together behind his head like a nest of snakes hanging down his back passed his
shoulder blades. They were wearing white tunics, over which crimson himations
were draped.
The Spartans
were studying one of the huge frescoes that adorned the walls beneath the
colonnaded passage, depicting the Battle of Marathon, vivid, and violent,
Miltiades larger than life, clasping his bloody sword, and hoplon,
leading the Athenian charge against the Persian invaders.
Aenesias was
lost in the imagery, transfixed on this moment of Athenian glory, picking out
the hideously twisted jaws of Athenian hoplites behind their mighty Corinthian
helmets; before them a sea of bloody and mangled Persian corpses. It was a
poignant reminder of the character of the Athenians in war … a worthy enemy not
to be underestimated, he thought.
He felt as much
an exhibit for curious eyes as the beautiful frescoes, and he did not much care
for the attention they were getting. The prying stares, the whispered comments,
the disdain and mistrust, the insincere smiles of the senators and city
magistrates made his skin crawl.
The Athenians
talked a great deal about nothing, committing to nothing, and making no
assurances, except they were willing to go to arbitration with the Corinthians,
reasserting their desires for peace, especially with the Lakedaemonians, who
they considered their friend and ally. Aenesias thought they should simply go
back to Sparta and declare war on the arrogant Athenians, as they clearly had
no desire for peace as demonstrated in their intractability, and refusal for
unilateral talks between them.
He turned and
looked across the busy agora. The white robed senators and aristocrats cliqued
together in their political groups were discussing Sparta’s protestations.
‘Fools,’ he said to his companion. ‘Their arrogance will be their ruin.’
‘There will be
much blood spilt then,’ said Aribias.
‘Oh yes. Too
many scores to settle on both sides,’ Aenesias replied.