2: CITIZENS

Hunger and dread make sleep difficult within this seaside city but no lamps are lit at night: they would burn oil that is part of a precious, dwindling food supply. Above and around it myriads of lights glitter from the height of the Milky Way down to the dark fields outside the city walls, but the vast random constellations differ from evenly spaced lower lights which also flicker more, being watchfires of a besieging army.

By a hilltop fire a soldier huddles within easy reach of his short sword, round shield and heap of fuel. He dozes when the flames are high, wakens cold when they sink and, yawning, feeds the fire with sticks and handfuls of dry goat dung. He sometimes glances at a comrade standing on a low limestone ridge behind him. Both soldiers verge on middle age but the first seems younger, being thinner with a trim beard. His face, melancholy in repose, has fine lines suggesting many different expressions, for it is an actor’s face. The other soldier — short, pot-bellied, bushy bearded — is almost menacingly ugly, his partly flattened nose having the tip tilted like the snout of a small pig. With wide-open mouth and eyes whose fixity suggests total absence of mind he faces east to where a dark sea reflects the lowest stars.

Two more soldiers arrive on the ridge, the foremost carrying a bundle of branches. Jumping down beside the fire he drops them on the fuel heap and in a voice that sounds aimed at many people declares, “While scavenging yonder I bumped into one of our gallant Ionian allies. Like the rest of his nation he’s a bit of an idiot — you are an idiot aren’t you?” he calls to his companion who stands staring curiously at the ugly soldier. “Yes, a bit of an idiot but a thoroughly decent chap, also a farmer like me when he’s at home. He gave me a nip from his flask so I asked him back here for a bite and a heat.”

“He’s barefoot without a cloak,” says the Ionian, still staring at the ugly soldier, “and not even shivering.”

“O yes he’s tough! And given to fits like that, but only when there’s nothing else to do. How long this time?”

The question is for the seated soldier who mutters “Since the moon went down.”

“Is he religious?” asks the Ionian.

“Not more than the rest of us. Some folk say a lot less.”

“Because he looks…you know…a bit like the priestess on the tripod when the god goes into her.”

“It isn’t a god he’s got inside him. It’s a demon!”

“What kind?”

“A little one that gives him advice.”

The Ionian cups a hand behind his ear, brings it close to the ugly soldier’s chest and says slyly, “It isn’t doing that now. I can’t hear a word.”

“Leave him alone — it’s his way of thinking!” cries the seated soldier impatiently.

The Ionian climbs down beside the farmer who, having warmed his hands at the fire, rummages in a pile of satchels under the ridge. Pulling out a string of onions and grey lump of cheese he lays them on a flat-topped boulder, contemplates them gloomily, draws his sword and hacks the lump into smaller lumps. With a gesture inviting the Ionian to do the same he wrenches off and bites an onion and crams cheese into his mouth. They stand side by side for a while, stolidly chewing and looking downhill across lower watchfires to the dim walls of the lightless city. Perhaps exasperated by a coarse mouthful the farmer swallows it and growls, “Why doesn’t that stupid little state surrender?”

“Why don’t we pack up and go home?” says the seated soldier. “You tell him,” the farmer orders the Ionian who slowly clears his mouth then says, “I don’t go home because my government ordered me here. It sent me because it’s afraid of your government.”

“If that’s your attitude hand over that flask,” says the farmer grumpily. The Ionian brings a bulging goatskin from under his cloak. Seizing it by the neck the farmer loosens a cord there, tilts his head back, squirts a jet of wine into his mouth and swallows. Ignoring a hand the Ionian has stretched out for the flask he points the neck at him and declares, “You have just said a very ignorant thing. You referred to my government. I don’t have a government. I am the government your government is afraid of — I and all the free citizens of Athens. That city refused to pay us the tribute we need to defend Greek civilization. We discussed this defiance thoroughly and voted for war. That is why your government sent you and your kind to help the free men of Athens attack Potidia.”

“I voted against attacking,” says the seated soldier.

“So did he I believe,” says the farmer, indicating the ugly soldier with his thumb, “but you’re democrats so you obey the will of the majority, otherwise the Athenian state would fall apart.” He drinks again from the flask then murmurs to himself, “Good stuff,” still ignoring the outstretched hand of the Ionian who says, after a moment, “I heard that Pericles governs Athens.” “Nonsense! He’s rich enough to be useful so we elect him to do some important jobs and sometimes take his advice. We can get rid of him any time we like.”

“He’s been head of state for thirty years,” says the seated soldier.

“He’s not a tyrant! He’s not even popular! He’s a pompous, cold-hearted selfish snob who loves nobody but himself and a foreign prostitute! But he’s the best man for the job because he knows what we want and gives it to us.”

“If you ever visit Athens,” the seated soldier tells the Ionian pleasantly, “you will find everyone with prominent jobs are like those in any other Greek city — they are rich.”

“Blethers!” says the farmer hotly. “The rich have more time than the rest of us to do public work, but at every parliamentary session our president is picked from the electoral rolls by lot, so ANY Athenian citizen has a chance at being president. If the Alopeky District wasn’t here on military duty, tomorrow I could be president of Athens, or that stonemason, or a comic showman like you. Why are you grousing? Do you hate our political constitution? Do you want to live under another?” “No,” says the seated soldier.

In a following silence the farmer sees his companions watching the ugly soldier. Annoyed by the loss of their attention he says roughly, “Ignore him. He can stand like that for hours. He carves marble into statues and the twiddly bits on top of columns. You need toughness for that.”

He swigs from the bottle again and mutters, “Not very good statues. Too stiff and mathematical. Nothing at all when compared with the best modern stuff. The great statue of Athena on the Parthenon, seventy feet high. Sailing toward the city on a clear day you see the head in the golden helmet, the shining point of her spear come up over the horizon before you see anything else, and when you stand at her feet and look up…she breathes! No other nation in the world has a goddess like her.”3

Finding himself still ignored he taps the Ionian’s shoulder with the flask’s neck and says pleasantly, “Listen Ionian, I am going to cheer you up. I will prove to you. By dialectics. That your father. Is. A dog.”

The seated soldier sighs impatiently. The Ionian stares. The farmer ties the flask to his belt saying, “You’re a farmer like me so you have dogs at home, right?”

The Ionian nods.

“Think of one. One that’s had puppies but isn’t a bitch, right? Is that dog a father?”

The Ionian nods.

“Is that dog yours?”

“I said so.”

“Then that dog…must be your father!”

The farmer chuckles but the Ionian is not cheered up.

“Quackery,” says the seated soldier, throwing a branch on the fire. The farmer glares at him, growls, “What did you say, grocer-boy?”

“Quack-quack-quackery.”

“You are wrong. It is a dialectical demonstration of a misconstrued syllogism. I’ve learned from experts,” says the farmer with dignity, then asks the Ionian, “Know what an expert is?”

After a pause the Ionian says, “Someone who advizes a government?”

“Correct! But all the free citizens are the government of Athens so we have hundreds of experts! Hundreds and hundreds attracted by our wealth from all over Greece — experts in rhetoric, semantics, politics, history, physics, land measurement, sword fighting, wrestling and interpretation of dreams. They teach the rich for so much a lecture, but on warm evenings poor men like me…well, I’m quite prosperous really…on warm evenings clever men like me go to the marketplace where a lot of experts stand on the pavement lecturing each other! Wise men with a good new idea usually keep it to themselves and rent it out carefully a bit at a time, but their ideas seem to breed by being argued over, so if you stand nearby you can pick up all kinds of useful tips.”

“That bit about my dog wasn’t useful.”

“Not to you! Your state is either a tyranny or a plutocracy or a phony democracy where a ruling boss and his gang are elected every year or two, but in Athens even law courts are democratic. Anybody can prosecute anybody they want or defend themselves before a jury. When you’re doing that it’s very handy knowing how to twist words and do you see something moving and glittering between the first two watchfires there?”

He points downhill. The Ionian peers.

“That,” says the farmer, “is an officer on a tour of inspection and he’d better not find you this side of the hill.”

“O,” says the Ionian and pointing to the flask at the farmer’s belt asks, “Can I have back my…?”

The farmer says firmly but kindly, “I’m sorry lad. No.”

The Ionian leaves. After a moment the seated soldiers says, “You stole that wine.”

“Can I help it that I am a Greek?” cries the farmer, slapping his chest with his fist, “The blood of the great Odysseus flows in these veins and we know what a scoundrel he was. Like a drink?”

“No. Who’s the officer?”

“The Darling. Yes, The Darling,” says the farmer, looking.

The young man who joins them is so strikingly beautiful that the farmer stares frankly at him and the seated soldier turns away to avoid doing so. Though officers of the Athenian democracy mostly belong to the richer class not many dress to show it. This officer’s brilliant tunic and armour show it without inciting mockery because fine clothing suits him and he is popular. A slight lisp and hesitation in speech indicate a conquered stammer which most folk find charming in so masterful a man.

“Cheers,” he says, warming his hands over the fire. “Fourth Alopeky Distwict are you?”

“That’s right,” says the farmer boldly,

“How are you off for wations? Their quantity I mean, not quality.”

“Quantity’s all right. Any news?”

“Weports say they’ll soon be eating each other in that little city. Their Spartan fweinds seem to have abandoned them.”

“Like a drink?” says the farmer, offering the goatskin.

“Thanks.”

The Darling drinks, brushes his lips with a finger, then points and asks, “Why doesn’t that man move?”

“He often goes like that when on guard. He is — ”

“The stonemason, yes. I know about him. He visits parties given by my uncle’s whore.”

They watch the figure on the ridge for a while. The Darling says, “That mason is a fweind of Heavenly Weason.”

“Is any Athenian NOT a friend of heavenly reason?”

“I’m talking about Anaxagoras, the physics expert. We call him Heavenly Weason because he says the world was formed by heavenly…” (with an effort he manages to say) “…reason. And that’s why it’s weasonable.”

“Too abstract,” says the farmer shaking his head. “If the world is a solid ball like some people say then it must have been punched into shape by something tough. A physics expert! Is he one of those who say the sun and stars are made of the same stuff as the ground?”

“Yes,” says The Darling, drinking again.

“That’s idiotic! The ground doesn’t shine. The stars do.”

“What about meteorites?” asks the seated soldier.

“Well, what about them, grocer-boy?”

“My mother gave up the shop years ago,” says the other, standing and stretching his arms, “and how do you explain meteorites? Little lumps of white-hot iron that sometimes fall out of the sky, usually at night. The country folk call them falling stars.”

The farmer frowns. The Darling and other soldier grin at each other. The farmer suddenly snaps his fingers and says, “Criminal little beetles occasionally say something blasphemous about Almighty God so the Eternal Father uses a little tiny thunderbolt to squash them flat. So be very careful, you comedian!”

The comedian laughs, hugs him and reaches for the flask saying, “Give me a swig of that.”

The Darling hands it over, smiling and saying, “No wonder Athens is named after the goddess of wisdom.”

“Yes,” says the farmer cheerfully. “Not every nation has common citizens as wise as the head of state and his nephew!” The Darling stops smiling and a moment later says dryly, “I’ll leave you now. The sun’s coming up.”

All three look eastward. Under the brightening sky a tiny line of piercing golden light is widening along the sea-sill. As if talking to a friend the mason says, “Welcome great Apollo, God of Day, Light of Life, Giver of Harvest and Harmony.” These are the first words of the Greek hymn to the sun. The others recite along with him saying “Thank you for overcoming chaos, the dark and cold in your bright chariot. Give truth to your oracles, peace to your shrines, wealth and grandeur, wisdom and victory to Athens, her people and allies for ever. Amen.”

The mason stretches his arms, skips to exercize his legs, jumps down from the ridge. Taking the last onion from the rock he removes the withered outer skin, sits down and chews it with appetite. The Darling, having paused to watch this, says jauntily, “I thought you experts believed the sun was a ball of white-hot iwon bigger than Peloponnesia.”

The mason looks steadily at the beautiful young man, clears his mouth and says quietly, “When a body gives me warmth and beauty I want to thank him, whatever he’s made of.”

His shyly teasing tone is flirtatious. The Darling sees the farmer and comedian watching with amused interest. He gestures farewell and strides away.

“Hard luck old chap!” says the farmer, chuckling. “You’re too ugly for him.”

He reclaims the flask and rummages again in the satchels.

The stonemason finishes eating the onion. The comedian asks, “What did your demon say this time?”

“I’m to sell the stoneyard.”

“Give up your business? Why?”

“I don’t know. He gives orders, not explanations. He seems to have grown tired of questions that recently fascinated me. What is the essential substance of the universe? Water, as Thales thinks? The fire of Heraclitus? The single solid unchanging globe of Parmenides or the eternal indivisible atoms of our friend Anaxagoras?”

“I prefer the Pythagorean Brotherhood’s idea,” says the comedian, grinning. “They say numbers make the shape and sound of everything from the globe of the earth to the strings of the harp, twing twang twong.”

“How do such things influence our conduct?”

“They don’t. Only gods do that.”

“Not much! Eros, Mars and Dionysus can certainly drive us mad, but they let us act how we want if we respect their shrines and titles like our neighbours do. So if even gods do not teach us to be better men they are as small a part of earthly wisdom — as little earthly use as scientific theories of the universe.”

“Priests and poets need gods and experts need theories.”

“Yes, as a source of income, but the wisdom of the state — the wisdom that keeps us alive and comfortable — is in the skill of labourers and craftsmen, the abilities of weavers, smiths, sailors, merchants…”

“You need my skills most!” says the farmer. He has placed a loaf like a small boulder on the rock, has hacked it with his sword into three equal parts and is moistening them with the last of the Ionian’s wine. The mason nods to him, says, “True. And what unites all people in a healthy state is honesty and mutual trust, things taught by our mothers when we are tiny children, not by priests and experts.”

“Perhaps,” says the comedian, smiling, “ though my mother taught me it was right to cheat customers if they never found out. But why sell the stoneyard if there’s more wisdom, more virtue in being an honest tradesman?”

“I don’t know,” says the mason frowning and picking up his share of the breakfast.

“And how will you live?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well,” says the comedian with a sudden air of great gaiety, “since Pericles introduced payment for parliamentary attendance and jury service it isn’t hard for an unemployed Athenian to scrounge a living.”

The mason twists his mouth as though tasting sourness but again nods agreement.

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