The Last of the Wine: A Novel

  He stood quite still, with his blue eyes fixed and empty. He had no need to hide his face when he would hide his heart. There came back to my mind the tale of their first meeting, which I had once heard Kritias tell. There was a table, I suppose, set up in the orchestra of the theatre, with a row of grey bankers sitting at it; the rich stiff citizens were coming up in turn with their gifts for the public chest, making the most of their progress down the aisle; the tallymen counted, the herald announced the sum, the crowd cheered, the donor bowed and went back to the compliments of his friends and sycophants. Then over the dusty grass strolled Alkibiades, and hearing the noise had a whim to see whom they could be cheering when he was not there. He walked through the pine-trees and came out above the benches, and asked what was going on; and his love of emulation quickened. So down the long stairs strode the youth, tall and strong and shining, and everyone applauded the mere sight of his beauty: it was said in those days that if swift-footed Achilles was as perfect of face and form as Homer sang, he must have looked like Alkibiades. He walked up to the board where the bankers were sitting behind their boxes, and planked down the gold he had been taking to buy a pair of matched greys for a chariot; the people yelled, and, frightened by their noise, out of his mantle flew the quail with its clipped wing, and flapped about the assembly. The bankers clicked their tongues, the rich men sulked, the people fell about the seats trying to catch the bird and win a look from its master, till in fright it fluttered out on the hillside and lodged in a fir-tree. And while everyone pointed and did nothing, up ran a young sailor with a black beard and gold earrings, and went aloft like a monkey, and fetched down the bird, and walking up to Alkibiades, gave him a bold bright look with eyes as blue as his own. So golden Achilles held out his hand laughing to Patroklos, and they walked away together through the noise and the longing faces. That was the beginning of it, and this the end.

  For a moment or two he stood silent on the waterfront, looking before him; then he turned and gave an order. A trumpet brayed over Samos the call to arms; the crowd broke up, seamen ran to the ships, soldiers to the camp to fetch their armour; Alkibiades strode away to his flagship. As I came back with the hoplites I saw him pacing the poop deck, back and forth, or hailing a ship that was delaying and telling them with curses to make haste. Then he gave the word to stand away; the fleet shook itself free of the land, and set sail for Ephesos. I felt my blood run warm again, the poison of defeat gone out of it; we followed him like lost dogs that have found the master and run round him barking, ready to tackle anything they see.

  The Spartans were exercising before the harbour when we sighted it. But when we reached it, not one was outside the bar. Lysander had been willing to do business, when he saw victory going cheap; but he knew who was here now to drive the bargain. His ships had their orders; and in Sparta, orders are obeyed.

  All day we beat up and down between Ephesos and Cape Rain, while Alkibiades waited for the Spartans to come out and give him battle. When the sun was sinking, we turned for Samos again. The lamps were lit when we got there, beckoning kindly from the harbour taverns. We beached the ship, and I said to Lysis, “I shall get drunk tonight. Will you come?” He answered, “I was going to propose it.”

  We made a night of it, but in the end we shook off the company we had found and went off together, both feeling, I think, that we could only share with one another what was in our hearts. A grief of loss ran through us, like a tune without words. It was not so much the loss of Alkibiades; for some time past he had been slipping away from us. If you can believe that a lyre may grieve for its own music, when the poet hangs it up and leaves it for boys to play on, that was our grief.

  In due course the City censured him, and relieved him of his command. They remembered enough of justice to leave it there; but none of us were surprised when, instead of returning to Athens, he sailed off alone to Thrace. He had built himself a castle there, during his comings and goings; and his enemies said that if he had ever been loyal at heart, he would not have got this bolt-hole ready. On the other hand, he knew the Athenians as a potter knows his clay.

  He loved to be loved, but was shrewd enough to guess that if anything went wrong, he would pay at the rate of their expectations. They scarcely believed at home that he was mortal, or that there was anything he could not do. One might have supposed they thought that like King Midas he could make gold of stones, for when it came out that on his last foray he had raided one of the subject allies, they were outraged at it; yet they had sent him nothing for months and our affairs were desperate. I for one never blamed him for building his castle; he was justified by the event. He went without saying goodbye to us; in the weeks after the battle he had become impossible; it was a kind of relief to see him go; yet when his sail dropped over the skyline, the sun shone less brightly, and the wine tasted flat.

  A whole board of generals was sent out to replace him. We put ourselves in mind of our duty, and said to each other that we were there to fight the war, not to complain of everyone who could not give it the dash of an Olympic chariot-race. That was in the early days.

  It was in autumn that the Spartan fleet trapped a flotilla of ours in Mytilene harbour, so that we looked like losing ships and men and Lesbos as well. To avert disaster, they reinforced our fleet with one from Athens, and we all sailed north together. Off the White Isles, on a rough grey morning, we met and beat the Spartans. It had rained and thundered in the night, and a heavy swell was getting up. We cheered when they began to fall back on Chios; none too soon either, for the wind was freshening. But some of their ships were still game; as we found when we saw one coming down on the Siren, to ram us on the beam.

  She was a big black ship with a dragon figure-head, which opened its red mouth at us. Wind and sea were with her; and though our rowers were breaking their backs to get away, I knew we should never do it. We had rammed twice already, ourselves, in the battle. I have yet to see a ship do it three times and get safe home, and as it was we were leaking like a basket. We dragged wallowing through the sea, while she swept down on us. I heard Lysis and the pilot shouting to the deck-hands to get the spare oars and try to fend off. Then I ran to the arms-rack and took an armful of javelins, issued them to the men, and climbed up myself with the rest to the deckhouse roof, because I saw she was going to strike us on the quarter. As she came on, I felt at my javelins to be sure they were sharpened well, picked out the best, twisted the thong round the shaft, and balanced it with my fingers in the loop, ready to get a good spin on it. The Siren was a fine ship, and we were all for selling her as dear as we could.

  I marked my man, standing on the catwalk, and waited to throw till he started to climb inboard before they rammed. You can often pin a man then by the arm or thigh, and put him out for the rest of the action. He was a Spartan, in a scarlet tunic, a tall man, who had pushed his helmet back to see better. He had a good face, and I was sorry there was no one else so well placed to aim at. The ship came on, very fast, but he stayed where he was, proud and calm, with a kind of exaltation in his eyes; till I almost forgot what I was waiting for, and felt like shouting, “Get in, fool! She’s going to strike!” With the heavy swell, their ram was under the water-line, but I could reckon the length. Then I thought, “Zeus! It’s the trierarch!” and brought back my arm and threw. Just as I did it, the ships struck.

  There was a great shock and grinding of timbers, shouts from the deck, howls and screams from the rowers’ benches below. I was thrown to my knees, and barely held on. As for the Spartan officer, I don’t know if I hit him, and it made no difference. The rail of the catwalk, which is flimsy in most ships, split with the shock and over he went. His arm came out, clutching at air; then he met the green sea and sank in his armour like a stone. It may be he was their latest general, Kallikratidas, who was lost overboard in just this way during the battle: Lysander’s greatest rival in war, and in honour much his superior; by all accounts, a great-hearted soldier and a thorough gentleman. If he had not been too
proud to survive defeat, much might have been altered afterwards.

  At all events, he died with his last work done, for the ram had gone right through our side. If it had not been for the ship’s great hempen girdle, bound round her stem to stern, I think she would have split in two. As it was, as soon as the Spartans had staved us off, the sea came pouring in.

  I sent a last javelin after the Spartan ship, an act of rage as useless as a child’s crying; then I leaped down to get some order on deck. Lysis had gone below to deal with the rowers. I whistled up the soldiers and got them into a moving chain, baling. The seamen having the buckets, we had only our helmets to use. We slid and splashed about, while the seamen tried to fish up the ballast for throwing overboard. Our corselets hampered and chafed us; armour was not made for working; but a man who throws away his arms in battle throws away something more, as well as his reputation after. When I saw someone fidgeting with a buckle, I gave him a look that sent him back to work with a red face. It could not be long before the fleet turned back to help us; the Spartans were in flight all along the line; and no one was going to say if I could help it that the men of the Siren were picked up in the hour of victory looking like a rabble in rout. From below I heard Lysis’ voice encouraging the rowers. I could not see him (I was standing at the hatchway, passing the filled helmets up on deck) but the mere sound of him did me good.

  When the crew could not get down to the ballast any more, they started throwing the stores over, and then the spare tackle. When I saw the shields going, I looked the other way. Two or three hurt rowers had been carried up on deck. One, who had been hit by the ram itself, was clearly dying. The others had been caught by the leaded looms of the upper-tier oars, which are counterweighted because of their length, and looked badly knocked about. I caught the eyes of one of them fixed upon me, black eyes with a clear white rim; he looked as if he hated me; but men understand each other at such times for better or worse, and I knew he hated anyone with two good arms, who could save himself in the sea.

  Meantime the pilot and some of the hands had got the great sail lowered over-side, and were trapping it over the breach with hawsers run below the keel. It stanched the wound of the ram, and though it was clear she was making water all over her hull, the baling did begin to gain a little. I looked about, as a wave lifted us, in search of help, but all the ships I could see were in trouble themselves. One of them went down as I watched. She settled stern first, her ram rearing up like the horn of a unicorn; then she slid backward, and the water was full of little black heads. I shouted out some nonsense to the men to take their minds off it.

  Lysis now came on deck, and split us into shifts, two on and one off, to give us some rest. The men were pleased; but he had gone up first to the deckhouse roof, and I guessed it meant no help in sight yet. The slaves were working along with the rowers. Their benches were under water, but none had been lost; Lysis never kept them shackled at sea. Presently my rest turn came, and I went over to him. “How goes it, Alexias?” he said, and then, “You handled the hoplites very well.” He was never too much pressed to think of such things.

  “The trierarch went overboard,” I said, “for what it’s worth. Did you see any of our ships?” He did not answer at first; then he said, “Yes, I saw them. They were hull down, running before the wind.” I stared and said, “But the enemy will be out of Lesbos the moment he gets this news. Our work’s done; why don’t they come for us?”—“I daresay,” he said, “they want to cut up the Spartans getting away.” But there was a note in his voice which I had not heard since the day at Corinth, when he lay in the temple of Asklepios.

  I felt a bitterness beyond speech; presently I said, “Alkibiades would have come back.” Lysis nodded. I said, “How many times have we gone to help the lame ducks, and lost a prize by it?” Just then we wallowed into a wave, and shipped enough water to undo a good spell of baling. He said, “The ship has been stripped; now it is time to lighten the men.” I knew what he meant.

  He went over to the hoplites. “Well, friends, the enemy has run. No Spartan can boast of seeing us throw away our arms. What we would not give up to men, we can offer to Father Poseidon. Gentlemen, unarm.”

  I worked away at the wet straps of my armour, trying to be quick with it. He had made me a soldier, and it was his due that I should do it before him. The corselet of Archagoras, with its gold studs and its Gorgon, came away from me. I walked over the wet deck, and dropped it in the sea.

  Just then Theras the pilot came up and said, “You’re none too soon, Lysis.” I looked at the weather and saw he was right. “With your permission,” he said, “I’ll get the deckhouse broken up.” There was no need to say more; one does it at the end, to get spars for the swimmers. Lysis said, “Very well. Break up the boat too.” We carried a little one, for places where we could not beach, to get water and stores. Theras looked at him; he said, “How many will she take, in this sea?”—“Four,” said Theras. “Five maybe.”—“She’ll give planks for ten or twelve. Break her up.”

  I went back to my baling again, and soon heard the crash of the axes. But presently there were other sounds. I told the men to get on without me, and ran on deck. Four of the seamen had turned their backs on the boat and their axes on their fellows. They meant to get away in her, and the riot was spreading. Already there were enough men fighting for the boat, to have swamped her if they had got in, just as Lysis had foreseen. Just then I saw him striding towards the scrimmage, unarmed.

  All this was in a moment. But I remember thinking, “Has he still such faith in men?” Amidships, below the broken deckhouse, there were a few javelins left in the rack. I snatched one up. Lysis was speaking to the men, most of whom had lowered their axes and looked ashamed. But behind him, the man whose eyes I had read beforehand was swinging back an axe-blade over his bare head. I threw, calling on Apollo. The point went deep, just left of the backbone; the weight of the axe swung the man backward, to fall upon the shaft. I think it went through his heart. All the javelins were sharp on the Siren. It was one of the things I saw to myself.

  When they were back at work again, Lysis came over to me. “You told me once,” he said, “that your life was mine. You have taken back your pledge again.” I smiled and said, “Not for long.” There was a great wave coming for us; when it broke I thought we should founder at once, but we limped on a little longer. I found Lysis’ hand in mine; he had caught it to keep me from being washed overboard. He said, “I wonder what Sokrates is talking about now.”

  We looked at one another. After so much action we were short of words, and felt no need of them. I thought, “It is finished, then: as it is now, will the god receive it.”

  Someone came running over the deck to us shouting, “Land!” We stared where he pointed, at a dim grey loom of little islands, beyond the tossing seas. Lysis said to me, “Where’s the water now?” I looked into the hatchway. “Over the second-tier benches.” He nodded, and blew his whistle to call all hands. He had just told them there was land in sight, and pointed it out to them, when the next sea hit us.

  She gave a great sick stagger, heavy and dull; then she foundered, on an almost even keel, quite slowly. I think if Lysis had not shouted to me to jump, I should have stood there, to feel the deck under my feet, till the suck of her sinking pulled me after her.

  I don’t recall very clearly the time while I was in the water. I remember I had a bit of planking at first, but it was too slight to bear my weight and kept dipping under. I let it go impatiently, then thought, “It was my life I threw away then; well, it is done.” I did not know east from west; the seas tossed and half choked me; I said to myself that it would be better to sink now and die quickly, but the life in me was stronger than reason and struggled on. All around me in the sea was shouting and crying; I heard someone calling again and again, “Tell Krates not to sell the land! Not to sell the land!” till his voice was cut off in the middle. My ears roared with water; when I came up there was still shouting, though less th
an before; something in my head said, “Listen, attend,” and again I thought, “How can I? I have enough to do.” Then I listened; and the voice of Lysis was shouting “Alexias! Alexias! Alexias!” I hailed him back and thought, “Well, we have spoken to one another.” Then I heard a swimmer gasping near by, and spitting out water, and Lysis was there with one of the stern-oars, pushing it towards me.

  I got my hands on it, then, coming to myself a little, said, “Will it bear two?”—“You can see it does.” It satisfied me at the time, being half-dazed, and used to believing what he said. I don’t think he did more than push it along, to help me forward.

  We swam a long time, for days and nights it seemed to me. As weariness grew on me, my body forgot its lust to live; there was a heavy pain in my breast; and presently a time came when rest seemed the only thing beautiful and good. I was so dull of mind that I would have let go the oar, and slipped away without a word; yet at the last my soul stirred for a moment, and I said, “Goodbye, Lysis.” Then I let go. But I felt a great tug at my hair, and rose up again. “Hold on,” he said, “You fool, we’re close to land.” But I cared only to be still. “I can’t, Lysis. I’m finished. Let me go.”—“Hold on, curse you,” he said. “Do you call yourself a man?” I don’t remember all he said to me. Afterwards, when I lay in the shepherd’s house on the island, coming to myself, I felt my mind all bruises I could not quite account for, as a man might feel his body who had been beaten while half-stunned. I think he called me a coward. At all events, one way or another he convinced me that letting go would be like dying with a wound in the back. Later on at night, while we sat dressed in old blankets, drinking black bean soup by a driftwood fire, he began to apologise, but in rather general terms, hoping I had forgotten. So when I saw what he wanted, I said I had.