The Isle of Stone

3

Cleon arrived in Pylos on the sixty-third day of the siege with a flotilla of ten ships and two hundred infantry. Demosthenes welcomed the ships and men, but could not fathom the Assembly’s choice of Cleon to replace Nicias. Yet there he was, striding up the beach in a spotless kit of parade armor, in a closed helmet mounted with horsehair brush, gold shield with repoussed Gorgon head, and fancy-tooled muscle cuirass. It was the panoply of a man who knew everything about shopping and nothing about fighting.

Perhaps equally as bad, he was followed by an entourage of other would-be warriors from the merchant trades-men he recognized from the Assembly as pottery magnates, fishmongers, moneylenders, and purveyors of high-class female entertainment. How impressive, those armored pimps, those joint chiefs of gash coming down the gangplank! Demosthenes watched them approach with his arm extended, a farcical smile carved on his face. Cleon took the hand and ignored the mockery.

Demosthenes conferred in his tent with his new commander. The general demanded water. His steward delivered a cup; sampling it, Cleon bowed his head and spat on the ground. “This is brackish!” he declared.

Demosthenes, pulling a face full of threadbare rue, explained that there were no sources of sweet water in the compound and deliveries from home were few. “Alas, it is what the People drink here,” he said. Cleon, regretting himself, looked into his cup and tasted again.

“On second thought, it is not exactly brackish,” he said. “Perhaps I meant to say it is hard-full of clay, I think.”

“Better clay than sewage. We’re short of space for those needs too.”

Cleon frowned. “Then it is good that we have been sent to put an end to all this.”

“That is also my hope.”

Cleon gave Demosthenes a long look. The latter, recognizing that he had strayed too close to the edge of insult, buried his misgivings and launched into a review of the tactical situation. Cleon seemed to relax as the details washed over him, not the least because he was pleased to have most of that information already.

“With the addition of the ships you have brought, we can expect to reduce the smuggling still further. The garrison should be quite weak then-weak enough to take by assault in a short time.”

“How much time?”

“Not long. Two weeks perhaps, or three.”

“We will attack in two days,” said Cleon.

Demosthenes stared at him.

“Perhaps… you did not hear me rightly. The Lacedaemonians are weakening, but we can make them weaker yet before risking an attack-”

“We will send a herald to enemy camp on the mainland tomorrow morning,” Cleon went on. “The longhairs shall have until sunset the same day to make their decision.”

“Knowing their numbers is not the same as knowing their disposition. There could be any number of traps on the heights we can’t see from the water.”

“Thereupon we will embark our forces at night and land them before first light on the second day.”

“A defeat might leave us undermanned against another attack on the stockade, notwithstanding our superiority on the water-”

“Your misgivings are noted, Demosthenes!” Cleon shouted, waving his right hand with oratorical flourish. “But I rule in accord with the will of the Assembly.”

In fact, storms had delayed Cleon on his trip around the Peloponnese-he needed to make up time if he was going to fulfill his promise to take the island in twenty days. If they could reduce the Lacedaemonians within the week there might be time to get word to Athens by mounted messenger, along his line of private contacts. It would be a shame to reveal this resource by bringing the news to town that way, but of course by then the issue would be decided and he would have won, so it would be a small sacrifice.

“I must urge you to consider again,” Demosthenes shook his head, “before our position here is ruined.”

“Demosthenes! Never let it be said that your efforts here have been unappreciated. What you have done here-Nicias, that dullard, would never have attempted it. You are the best we have-”

“I assure you that there’s plenty of time yet to make an attack before foul weather sets in.”

“-but if I need to pack you off for home, I will.”

The threat stopped Demosthenes’ tongue. Cleon continued, “Understand me, I would rather do this with you than without-but it will be done. Will I have your help?”

The Aetolians came down the slopes on both sides of the canyon, letting loose their half-barbarian cries. Most of his men crumpled instead of fought, too exhausted by their tramp through strange country to raise a sword in defense. When they were finished the little stream ran red with Attic blood. Their bones are still there, scattered and sorted by the spring flood into little piles, like with like-arms here, the tiny bones of the hands and feet there, swept farther down the creekbed-

The commanders were overheard to argue for quite some time, with neither willing to shift his position. The final word belonged to Cleon. The other got small revenge, though, when Cleon asked where he and his companions might pitch their tents.

“General, we need every patch of sand here for the ships and men! Those in your staff are free to make whatever arrangements they can on the ships. You, of course, are welcome as my guest here-if that will suffice.”

From the middle of their raccoon patches, Cleon’s small eyes shifted over the cramped space of Demosthenes’ tent, which smelled of salt, rotten seaweed, and the sweat of his host’s feet. The circumstances would not suffice. The campaign would have to be a short one.