The Isle of Stone

6

The Lacedaemonian emissary arrived the very evening the truce lapsed. Demosthenes received the man in his tent before joining one of the ships that would guard the island that night. It had lately turned cold on the bay; a hint of fall, of snow on some Balkan mountain and leaves beginning to moulder, hung on the northwest breeze. On his field bed his valet had left his equipment for the night: a pack with some bread and cheese, a woolen cloak, a little scroll of light poetry to divert him, and if that failed, a set of well-worn worry beads. That his visitor would perceive him to be a man willing to stand a post himself was all to the good, he thought-but in retrospect he regretted showing the beads.

This time they sent an old Spartiate named Zeuxippos. As he regarded the cadaverous fellow, the old man’s eyes shot back a look of mildly tempered amusement, as if the sight of anyone not Spartan bearing arms seemed somehow absurd. Demosthenes responded with the condescension Athenians typically reserved for Attic and Euboean hicks who came into town on festival days. And why, wondered Demosthenes, did the longhairs always send a new man for every errand? Was it something as straightforward as not permitting any one person to become indispensable? After years of fighting the Lacedaemonians, he suspected that the reason was both simpler and subtler: they must believe that any one of them had to be competent, by the mere fact that he was a Spartiate.

“By the terms of the truce, the Peloponnesians handed over all the Athenian ships they had captured,” Zeuxippos was saying. “Need we remind you that with the resumption of the war, you are now bound by oath to return our property to us?”

Demosthenes stuffed his beads into a fold in his cloak. “Honored guest, what you say is correct-but incomplete. By my understanding of the terms, the smallest violation by either side nullifies the agreement.”

“And how have the Lacedaemonians failed to keep their oaths?”

“In what ignorance do the Spartans keep their elders! Nor am I obliged to tell you how you have wronged us-though I will, just to show you how Athenians value their agreements. A small party of our allies was attacked during a foraging trip to the north of Pylos. One man was killed. And so by the terms of the armistice, we are released from our obligation to return the ships.”

Zeuxippos appeared ready either to laugh in Demosthenes’ face or assault him with his veiny fists. “I think you speak of an invasion of our territory by bandits. The attempt was driven into the sea. Have I heard you rightly-did you say the Athenians were in league with these troublemakers? If so, the violation was on your part, not ours.”

“It is my understanding, sir, that the Messenians are the rightful owners of this territory, and that it is therefore impossible for them to ‘invade’ what is already theirs.”

“Take care, Demosthenes! We are not disputing in the stoa here. These are matters older than you know, and perhaps beyond your understanding. If you wish to speak of what is ‘rightful,’ know that the rabble you call your ‘allies’ swore before the gods never to return from exile.”

“Their grandfathers did, perhaps,” replied Demosthenes. “But that is nothing to us-they fight with us now, and as I have said, the smallest violation nullifies our commitment.”

On schedule, Leochares begged to interrupt.

“General, the fleet is ready.”

“So you see I must leave you now,” said Demosthenes. When Zeuxippos said nothing, he could not resist adding, “If you wish anything to eat or drink before you leave-wine, fruit-please ask the steward. We are very well provisioned here.”

Zeuxippos turned himself around. Before he left, he leaned hard on his staff and addressed Demosthenes over his shoulder.

“I wonder if they will elect you general again, Demosthenes, when you fail to learn the lessons of Aetolia.”

It was a blow well struck. Demothenes colored despite himself, but could think of nothing to say. He was rescued when Leochares made an unexpected return.

“Begging your pardon, but we have word from our lookouts on Koryphasion.”

“What is it? Have the Peloponnesians found the courage to attack?”

“No, General-it’s the island. It’s burning.”