The Isle of Stone

5

The Acharnians of the Terror took the oars the next day for their eighteenth circuit of Sphacteria-the most of any ship in the fleet. There were almost fifty other vessels at Demosthenes’ disposal, but after two months it was clear which crews were good at blockading and which not so good. On none of its previous trips had the Terror run aground, gotten rocks dropped on it, or lost rowers to oar shafts snapped back by submerged obstacles. Sphaerus, the steersman, had neither orbited the island in wide, lazy circles, nor taken undue chances coming in close. The captain, Xeuthes, had not sought undue shore privileges, but had beached his vessel only as much as necessary.

Yet the effort was taking its toll on Philemon’s investment. The limited laying-up time had saturated the hull’s wood, causing leaks. What supplies they had shipped for repairs were long since gone, forcing the carpenters to beg for replacement blades, unsplit oar sleeves, and intact sheets from the rest of the fleet. “Don’t look, but here come the Acharnians again!” the other captains would complain; though the quality of their patriotism was well-known, the fact earned them no sympathy from their fleetmates. All of them would ultimately confront a long voyage home, very likely out of fair-sailing season, when-if ever-the accursed siege ended.

Xeuthes was therefore in a foul mood as he watched the familiar serrations of the island slip by. He was tired of these waters and these rocks. He was tired of being tired. He had never lost a vessel in his time, but might yet see one rotted out from beneath him. And it was all on account of a pack of stubborn Lacedaemonians who refused to accept they were beaten! In his gloom he could imagine his enemies starving themselves, eating dirt, consuming their dead companions-going to any extreme to outlast the summer, to see the Athenians scattered by the autumn storms. He envisioned them as grinning, cock-sure skeletons, taunting him from the beach as the Terror, down to one bank of patched oars, waddled away on its waterlogged strakes.

Lately he was consumed by another peeve: with time ashore rationed among all the ships, he had been forced to take far too many meals afloat. No one was meant to eat on the water, he decided; there was a reason the gods had given mortals legs instead of flukes. Nor were men made to spend all their days packed like sprats in a jar, struggling to breathe in sweltering middecks or stockades strewn with filth. He summoned Stilbiades.

“By the gods,” Xeuthes declared to the bosun, “we will eat our next meal on dry land!”

“Sir?”

“Stop the ship. Tell Sphaerus to find us a decent place to go ashore.”

Stilbiades sucked in a breath like a drowning man breaking the surface at last. “But isn’t that against orders? The Spartans-”

“Use your eyes, man! If we come ashore on this low section, we can see them coming from a long way off. I suspect they have no archers.”

“I suspect you’re right,” the other replied, his wind-chapped face cracking into a grin. In fact, he longed for the Lacedaemonians to attack. Anything to force the issue at last.

The men of the Terror went to the island in relays. They had very little food with them-just a few sacks of half-rotten onions and whatever remained of the rationed flour. Yet these seemed like a kingly repast to those privileged to recline ashore, free to stretch every limb beside a fine, fragrant, sleep-inducing pinewood campfire. Patronices, the beam man, lay dozing, his head cradled on a rock that, by the peace that shone from his face, might as well have been a silken pillow.

“I wouldn’t get too comfortable,” Timon advised. “The longhairs will spot our smoke sooner or later.”

“Let them come! They’ll learn a lesson they’ll never forget, coming between a sailor and his rest-”

Dicaearchus was sitting up, examining the soles of his bare feet. “These fucking rocks! I’ve never bled so much in seven years of war!”

“In seven years of war you’ve never stopped complaining.”

“Look for yourself, then! Here, here, and here…!”

“I’d dance on razors not to have to walk on sand again,” said Timon. “I believe my toes are permanently curled.”

“So your boyfriend tells us,” Patronices replied, the ends of his lips smugly twisted.

The next group to land included Xeuthes, Stilbiades, and the deck men Cleinias and Oreus. Old Sphaerus was invited as well, but refused. “Anyone who invites his enemy to dinner is a fool,” he said in a voice so dripping with portent everyone had to laugh. Philemon, the trierarch, meanwhile, made one of his rare appearances outside his cabana, sticking his head out when the ship came to rest ashore.

“Is the siege over?” he asked.

They had three large fires going now, each loaded with sap-filled twigs that made much smoke and noise. The Lacedaemonians obviously know we are here, thought Xeuthes as he leaned against a boulder, his eyes fixed north; if we bring enough men ashore that may be protection enough against an attack. It made no sense for their adversaries to reveal their numbers before the real battle, he judged. Yet he was also beginning to suspect that he had been precipitate in declaring the beach safe. A third of his crew was now on their backs, snoozing or roasting little buff-colored lizards they had caught in the brush. If the enemy managed a sneak attack, most of his men would be cut down before they got to their feet.

“You there! Keep your traps shut!” the captain snapped at the archers posted on the Terror’s foredeck. The bowmen straightened up, ceased their chatter. They were, after all, supposed to give cover if the Lacedaemonians came. “Remind me to trade away those idlers when we get back,” Xeuthes said to the bosun. Stilbiades agreed with a drowsy grunt.

The attack came just past noon. Before Xeuthes heard anyone cry out, arrows were whistling over his head. Scanning the hillside, he spotted them at last-not Spartans, but weird negative images of Spartans, with cloaks faded to gray and skins broiled red from the sun. They were spearless, swords in hand, zigging and zagging like oblong rocks bouncing down the slope to crush them. There seemed to be only a dozen-or in Lacedaemonian terms, there were only sixty Athenians to face twelve raging furies.

“They’re here! They’re here!” someone cried.

“Back to the ship!” Xeuthes commanded. “Archers… by the gods

…”

They were shooting, but hitting nothing as the lead Spartan approached the edge of the camp. He struck down the first Athenian he met-a hold man named Lysimachus-with a precise economy of effort: just a brief pointing of the end of his blade, a stab to the soft part of the throat, and on to the next one. Everything was in an uproar now, his crew breaking frantically for the water, the great crimson lambdas appearing over the rocks; the Terror’s little corps of six hoplites, having brought their armor with them, made a stand with shields presented. Three Spartans raised their own shields as they crashed against them, pushing the Athenians backward over the broken ground until the latter lost their footing. Five of Xeuthes’ men were killed where they lay; the last escaped by abandoning his shield.

Stilbiades was yelling something as he shoved Xeuthes back toward the gangplank. Philemon, for his part, was running with impressive speed, his bulk streaming back in great liquid waves across his torso. With the Lacedaemonians closing behind him, he seemed suddenly to be airborne, little feet churning on pointe as his piercing scream rose to a funereal crescendo.

Xeuthes was yelling at him, at the bosun, at everyone as he backed onto the plank. The archers seemed not to have hit a single attacker. The enemy were at last slowed down by the extraordinary efforts of a few ordinary oarsmen who threw flaming boughs. The smoking missiles seemed to give the Spartans pause-one of them stood still long enough for an archer to get a bead and put an arrow through his shoulder. He was propelled sideways, toppling on his side like a stone cairn blown down on a windy hillside. Two other Lacedaemonians converged to help him; the oarsmen kept throwing their burning sticks until they were distant enough to turn and run.

The crew took with them as many of their dead comrades as they could. Yet, as the Terror pulled away from the shore she abandoned ten bodies on the beach. The captain had Sphaerus take them out into the bay and back again in a wide loop, to rest again near shore, ram-forward. Xeuthes then went up to the stem and did what custom demanded: he asked for quarter and the Lacedaemonians’ permission to retrieve the dead.

The customary answer was to accede, but he got no answer from the island. Xeuthes repeated his plea, then turned to Stilbiades.

“Are those dogs ignoring me?”

“Feel that,” said the other, raising his open palm to the shore. “There’s quite a strong fire behind that smoke.”

Xeuthes could feel the heat through his beard. The island, of course, was a tinderbox, but could the blaze have spread so fast? And what was the precedent for claiming the fallen from a burning battlefield when the victors have fled? Pondering these questions, he left his ship floating, with oars poised in midstroke, as the rising inferno melted the crystals of sea salt on his brow to stinging tears.