The Isle of Stone

6.

The moon was down and the sun still hidden behind the bulk of Mount Mathion when the time came. Overhead, the sky was a venous blue that grew redder to the east, until the few clouds heralding the ascent of Helios flared like kindling. In the moment of collective pause no sound rose-not the cooing of the wild pigeons in their holes, nor the usual murmur of the bay’s waters, nor the chatter of nine thousand Athenians, suspended mutely in their beaked ships.

Demosthenes raised the signal pennant. As planned, his order was relayed around the south end of Sphacteria and around to the Ionian squadron. The troop carriers off the east and west shores of the island drove ashore and disgorged their contents: crack platoons of the Athenian hoplites in full panoply, assigned to set up a defensive perimeter around the landing places. After them would come the regular oarsmen equipped with spears and wickerwork shields, and finally the archers, who would form up in ranks to cover the push inland. If the whole operation went as planned, the Athenians would outnumber the Lacedaemonians on the island by a ratio of ten to one.

Resplendent as the dawn in his new armor and exhilarated by the spectacle, Cleon wore a proud, militant pout. Though he had contributed nothing to the attack but its timing, he clearly had the most to gain or lose from its outcome. The high personal stakes gave him a sense of ownership over the forces unleashed that morning; men were marching to war, he sensed, in the service of his destiny. So it was this, he thought, that made Nicias so enamored of the military life! Such had never figured in his plans, this kind of glory. But as the brave little bronze figures splashed ashore, and serried to his purpose, Cleon was thrilled by a world of possibilities. He could not help but wonder now, “Why not me?”

Demosthenes turned around. “Did you say something?”

“Nothing,” he replied, still intrigued by the question. Why not, indeed?

From the water they could see only the east prong of the attack, but that seemed to be progressing well. The hoplites met no resistance at the beachhead, and as they pushed further up the broken ground, probing shadowed crevices with the points of their spears, it appeared as if the enemy had deserted the island. Time seemed to slow as Demosthenes awaited the key deployment; he envisioned his forces, before they organized and dispersed, suddenly swept onto the hardscrabble shore as if by some invisible force. For the first time in months he feared to unlock his knees, lest Cleon see his legs snap, and learn he was not a man but a two-stemmed figurine of clay and dirt. What business had his kind on the pitching deck of a ship? Was there any doubt that, when he failed, they would toss him over the side, like drunken merchants disposing of a spent wine jar at sea?

Less than a mile west, Xeuthes waited his turn to scramble through a jag on the island’s seaward rampart. The point was narrow, a mere crenellation in the island’s natural defense, and the Athenians found themselves bunched up along the gangway and back onto the deck.

“Keep moving, you women!” Leochares hissed from the shore, waving his hands like a chorus master exhorting his troupe. “This is no time to worry about soiling your skirts! I’ve seen girls file through a springhouse faster!”

“He’s been in and done with a whore faster, too,” cracked Timon, who waited in line a few places behind Xeuthes. Cleinias found the wind to laugh along, though his terror at the Lacedaemonians had left him without a trace of spit in his mouth. Under the circumstances, embarking through the passage in that dreary half light, it was as if they each awaited their turn at the gates of Hades.

When the men of the Terror reached the plateau they joined a force of four thousand others massing there. Space was still limited, and with most of the Athenians wearing old closed helmets with a limited field of vision and no earholes, many of them could neither see nor hear. Disgusted by the jostling, Leochares combed through the mass in a silent frenzy, sorting peltasts from archers, hauling the latter out by their leather corselets and into position. Time was running short: though the sun had still not showed itself from behind the mountain, the halo around its summit promised it would soon. With that, the possibility of surprise would be lost.

The first wave of light-armed troops charged inland. True to their reputation, the party included a disproportionate number of Acharnians. Scaling the spine of the island, Xeuthes, Timon, and Cleinias were slowed by boulders, hidden kettle holes, and the blackened skeletons of trees looming in the darkness. A man beside Xeuthes suddenly fell behind, clutching the back of his calf; Timon, his heart pounding, felt a tearing pain in his right big toe but ran on. Only later, when his excitement ebbed, would he realize that the toe was cut nearly in two as he stumbled over a sharp rock.

Xeuthes willed his old legs onward a few more steps. He was among the oldest in the attack, but felt his gaunt form renewed by it. To grasp the spear, to embody the will of his city with every stride, was a thrill rarely available to him anymore. As the first sun-beam broke over Mathion he felt a trickle of sweat course through the bristles at the back of his neck. There was a square of fabric lying on the ground before him-a faded cloak with traces of crimson at the edges.

With Timon and Cleinias at his side, Xeuthes watched as something rustled under the cloak. A lump appeared, and a dirt-caked finger along the hem. When a fold of the cloak was suddenly flipped up, the Acharnians looked down on the face of a young Spartan.

Lips cracked with thirst, locks disheveled like a nest of snakes, Namertes squinted at the newcomers. He was still struggling to make out what he saw when Cleinias, in a sudden panic, lifted his spear and sank it through the cloak. Timon followed before Xeuthes could stop him. Six others converged, taking their chance to jab a vaunted Lacedaemonian. As he was attacked, the victim made only a single sound: a kind of startled grunt, like a man stubbing his toe.

“Stand down, you men!” shouted Xeuthes. “Cleon wants prisoners.”

The Athenians laughed at this. Not that their captain had said it with much conviction-who ever heard of such a thing as a Spartan captive? Didn’t the longhairs take pride in never raising a hand in surrender? Well, if someone was going to give himself up today, it wouldn’t be this fellow!

The hold men perforated the corpse until they were exhausted. Xeuthes cast a reproving eye on them.

“Satisfied?”

Timon extracted the point from Namertes’ backbone with a twisting motion. “No,” he replied. “It seems they die just like other men.”