The Isle of Stone

13.

He emerged barehanded, helmet dimpled from glancing arrow hits, arms and legs smeared with blood, nose and eyes caked with the residue of fire. On his appearance the Athenians fell silent, staring wide-eyed at him as he strode from between the ramparts of enemy dead.

Demosthenes and Cleon, by contrast, looked as fresh as when the day began. The former had not wanted a parley at all; the notion that the Lacedaemonians would negotiate a surrender was absurd. Yet Cleon had insisted on it, thinking that the mere possibility of crowning his victory with captives was worth the attempt. Demosthenes indulged his foolishness as best he could-the men could at least be given water as the futile act was done.

The antagonists met midway. Antalcidas eyed the Athenians with more than a crease of disdain. In victory or defeat, it would always be in his nature to despise foreigners. The squat one standing before him was shifty, with flesh as soft and flaccid as a woman’s; he doubted the man had ever spent a day risking his life in the line. The taller man, whom he took to be Demosthenes, had a certain aristocratic severity, but his eyes betrayed the uncertainty in his mind. Antalcidas said nothing, allowing the Athenians to speak first.

Cleon was delighted with this display of laconic primitiveness. If it was up to him, Antalcidas would be brought back to Athens just as he was, elbow-deep in gore. What a trophy the rustic warrior would make! What a triumph awaited the People’s champion!

“Do you know who I am?” asked Cleon.

“You are my enemy,” replied Antalcidas.

The other smiled. “They say the Lacedaemonians are stupid, but I’ve never believed it. So I’ll address you frankly-what is your name?”

“Antalcidas, son of Molobrus. But I’ll thank you not to sully my father’s name by speaking it.”

“You must see that your position is desperate today. Though you have fought well, we both know the fate in store for you. I must tell you that many of the Athenians would just as well see you all slaughtered. But as we are all Greeks here, I have prevailed on them to allow me to make this offer: surrender yourselves and your arms now. You will be well treated. Provided your masters behave responsibly, you will live to see home again.

“Now I know all about you Lacedaemonians and your lust for death. You all see yourselves as part of the gallant Three Hundred, itching to die to defend the pass from the barbarians. But understand this, my friend: we are not barbarians, and you are not Leonidas. You were beaten here today not by Asian profligacy with lives, but by the superior leadership of fellow Greeks. I suspect that even Spartans must give up their childish fantasies one day; they must confront facts just like the rest of us do. I implore you, then, with respect-think of your men. Think of your wives and children. Consider our offer.”

Antalcidas looked at him as if expecting him to say more. When Cleon didn’t, he raised an eyebrow. “I think you must be right. I must be stupid, because unlike you wise Athenians, I cannot see the difference between surrender and humiliation. So if that is all you have to say-”

He turned to walk back to the fort. Cleon looked to Demosthenes with alarm. The latter, for his part, would have been glad to see the conference end. In his experience, addressing a Spartan was as useless as talking to a rock; he had once heard Aristophanes quip that although Athenians and Lacedaemonians had Greek in common, they used opposite halves of the language.

“Before you go,” Demosthenes spoke up, “you should know something.”

Antalcidas paused.

“Be aware that your masters have been treating with our Assembly very hard for an end to the siege. So it seems that a few hundred dead Spartiates is a matter of some concern in Sparta. They want you back alive, not dead and covered in glory. Personally, I’m happy the negotiations have failed. I have not worked these months for you to walk free of here-I’d prefer to see you humbled, once and for all. But even if I care not a spit for you or the wishes of your elders, perhaps you should.”

Antalcidas regarded Demosthenes with something close to approval. “So it seems that some Athenians are capable of speaking plainly,” he said. “It is good to know. As for what you say-it is your ignorance to suppose that Spartan mothers do not care for their sons. And so, because you are a soldier, and have spoken honestly, I’ll make you an offer: allow us to send a messenger to our superiors ashore. If they order us to surrender our arms, I will not disobey them.”

Cleon was about to agree, but Demosthenes spoke first. “We have no objection. But we will deliver the message for you-none of you will leave this island.”

The truce persisted for several more hours as the Lacedaemonians consulted. As they waited, Antalcidas checked on Epitadas’ condition: with the arrow still lodged near his spine, he had lost a lot of blood, which in addition to his dehydration kept him sunk in semi-consciousness. If they didn’t soon find a way to remove the arrow safely, he would die. Then again, was that not the fate to which he was resigned for some time now?

Antalcidas did not think the ephors would give the Athenians the satisfaction of a speedy reply. He was therefore surprised when the Athenian ship soon returned with a message, shut with string and a wax seal with the mark of Zeuxippos. Unscrolling it, he found a single, uncoded line, unmistakably in his old mentor’s hand. It read: o???