The Isle of Stone

2.

If twenty thousand pairs of ears made a sound as they pricked to attention, Cleon heard it. After the requisite pause, he opened his arms wide in a gesture of indiscriminate, encompassing, yet self-aggrandizing love.

“Neither Nicias nor I know the strength of the enemy-but I say now that should not matter! What care had the men who fought at Marathon for troop counts, Nicias? Or the citizens who took the oars at Salamis? The verdict of this war, and the future of the Athenians, depend on either routing the Lacedaemonians or taking them to ransom. For that reason the task must be done despite the odds. It must be done despite the excuses of topography, bad supplies, or interference from the enemy ships. It must be done despite fears for our personal reputation if we fail! For the Athenians can accept defeat-they can understand and forgive, as they have the valiant Demosthenes, who lost so many in Aetolia. What they cannot forgive, though, is the failure even to come to grips with the task-to flit and skulk and delay while the chance for victory slips away!

“Do I have your attention, Nicias? If I do, I call on you to avail us of the talent you showed so well against the Megarians. The moment you present yourself at Pylos, and redouble your efforts against them, the Lacedaemonians will fall in no more than twenty days. That is my prediction-you will bear them home in chains in twenty days. For I have faith in you, Nicias, if you do not!”

Cleon came down with his fellow citizens reduced to silence before him. Men came to the Assembly to hear him speak for many reasons; in a body that could only function in an air of mind-numbing decorum, they came for Cleon’s histrionic excess, for his humor, for his talent of turning any debate, on any issue he chose, into an elemental struggle between light and darkness. He had often used the tactic of picking out one member of the opposition in the crowd, some specimen of his class, and blustering directly at him. But today another line had been crossed. Pericles, in a generation on the platform, rarely deigned to mention the name of any living man, let alone expose him to direct criticism. Cleon had dropped all such delicacy in his war against Nicias. A debate about policy had become, in his hands, a prosecution.

Nicias was obliged to defend himself, but he did not rise at first. Instead, he listened as his allies whispered into his ear, showing no reaction except a weary nod as the conferral ended. There was no evidence of anticipation, no joy in rhetorical combat on his face when he came forward. Offered the wreath, he didn’t put it on his head, but held it in his hand, as if he expected to speak only a moment.

“To Cleon’s rantings, I make no reply except this: if he would do better, I would be pleased to surrender my command to him-if the Assembly agrees.”

The rancor gathered by degrees as Nicias withdrew. Citizens turned to complete strangers and argued with them; the place divided between those who denounced Nicias’ offer as an abject surrender and those who saw it as a brilliant tactic. The latter observed that Cleon, who by upbringing knew leather making better than soldiering, would now be forced into a difficult choice: either accept nomination to lead a campaign with uncertain prospects, or refuse a command that he himself had claimed should be wrapped up in twenty days. Nonsense, replied the skeptics-Nicias’ shame for abandoning his command would damage him more than any defeat would harm Cleon. Back and forth they went as the magistrate screamed for order, and the sun climbed higher, and the lunch vendors in the market looked up and wondered why the Assembly was taking so long that morning.

At length Cleon took the floor and raised his hands for quiet. The uproar died at once.

“Athenians,” he said, “how have things come to this? The generals of our city now surrender their sacred responsibilities like fancy friends trading whores across the banquet table! Like all nobles with too much to lose, Nicias fears the consequences of defeat more than he craves the fruits of victory. In this hour of crisis, he therefore indulges in petty rhetorical ploys, hoping to confuse the People by shifting attention to his own indispensability. Nicias, your selfishness is showing! Very well, then, let us call this sad bluff! I accept your challenge, Nicias, if you truly are derelict enough to surrender your command. I have no faith in the depth of your sincerity!”

The herald accepted the wreath and looked again to Nicias. The latter did not rise to speak, but merely shook his assent. The herald looked to the president of the Assembly, who also shook his head.

“The measure is before the People,” the herald announced, “to accept the resignation of Nicias and dispatch Cleon in his place.”

A thunderous cheer went up that echoed back from the hills. But the tone was only half-serious: in these dismal times, it came as a fine joke, to replace Nicias with this windbag. It might even serve Cleon right, to get his hands dirty at last!

Cleon went white. He had not been thinking of the actual effect of his words, but only of scoring a victory over Nicias. Shaken, he demanded the myrtle from the herald, who ignored him. He tried to seize it; the herald, who was a much taller man, held it out of his reach. The spectacle became a burlesque: Cleon, desperate to take back his words, was reduced to hanging on the other’s arm, trying to use his weight to pull down the hand that held the wreath. At last the herald relented. Cleon snatched the myrtle and unleashed a stentorian wail.

“O perfidy! O my dear Athenians! Don’t let yourselves be fooled by the schemes of devious men! Perhaps I speak too earnestly in defense of my city; it is a tempting excess for me, I admit, but no vice! I say let Nicias show similar zeal as he prosecutes the war. If he had, we would not be in the position we are now, casting about for his replacement…”

“WE WANT CLEON!” shouted a voice from the left. The demand was followed by an outburst of guffaws from that side, which provoked the right to rise in indignation, crying, “YES, WE WANT CLEON!” The wings of the Assembly then became locked in a competition over who wanted Cleon more; the herald and then the president could scarcely be heard over the riot as they demanded order, and Cleon stood helpless, trying to fathom what was happening.

Looking down, he regarded Nicias, who avoided returning his gaze. Cleon believed he saw mirth in the manner of Nicias’ furtiveness-some trace of smugness that boiled his blood. Cleon reached up and again felt the dispatch under the fabric of his chiton. The touch of it restored what had been shaken in him; if Nicias had known that the Spartans held the island with such a small force, he would never have surrendered his command. The advantage, then, was still with Cleon-if he had the courage to exploit it. He raised a hand for quiet.

“The measure is before us, and I say let us vote, gentlemen! Unlike Nicias, I am not afraid of the Lacedaemonians. True, I have not seen battle in decades, since my days as an ephebe. But because Athens trusts me, and I love Athens, I accept this challenge.

“Moreover, I will not strip Athens of defenders to guarantee my word. I will take only the foreigners who are in the city-the peltasts from Thracian Aenus, the men from the islands of Lemnos and Imbros-as well as a company or two of archers. With these few troops, and those under the command of Demosthenes, I pledge to accomplish what more experienced men have not. I will wipe the sneers from the Spartans’ faces. I will capture them, or kill them where they stand. Twenty days from when I depart, it shall be done.”