Tides of War, a Novel of Alcibiades and the Peloponnesian War

XXIII

Gylippus struck on the twenty-second day. He came against the ramparts with thirty thousand and with seventy-six vessels on the fleet in the bay. The walls held; the ships didn't.

Our squadron leaders Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos all went down. Of twelve in our reconstituted company of marines save Lion and myself, five were killed and four disabled. In all, forty ships were lost, including sixteen driven aground at the salt marsh called the Horns, where Gylippus' men penned the crews between seawalls and slaughtered them to the last man. The captured vessels were now in service against us. Eurymedon's Ariadne was lost off Dascon. The foe nailed the general's corpse to the prow and paraded before our palisade, vowing to make us all envy the dead.

Here was an overthrow as monumental as the calamity on Epipolae. Men's hearts broke. They could not believe they had been routed, again so utterly, or what was yet more patent: that worse would come, and soon.

The enemy was erecting a wall of ships across the harbor mouth.

Word came that we would make a run for it, all or nothing. The upper walls of the camp were abandoned and a new crosswall thrown up, tangent to shore. Our estate had shrunk to a rectangle of mire, less than a mile at its base, penned on all landward sides.

Sixty thousand, including ninety-five hundred wounded, and a hundred and ten ships packed every stinking foot. The last slaves and camp followers were kicked out, even though they, who had

proved so steadfast, entreated to stay. Bread remained for five days only; it must be spared for the troops and the wounded.

No footing remained to plant the dead. Burial parties stacked the corpses in squares, layering ship's timbers between, that faces might be visible for identification. The lanes between these barrows filled with brothers and comrades, seeking their own.

Men returned from these errands struck through with such woe that they could neither sleep nor eat, and no threat or blandishment could make them obey an order. So unwholesome had the hospital site become, so grisly and dispiriting, that physicians bade their charges scatter where they would among the camp. Corpses of men slain at sea collected like booms of logs, choking the strand, while those not borne onto our palisade by tide and swell were driven there by vessels of the foe, herding them with boat hooks and boarding pikes.

We must break out or die. All who could fight were taken aboard. The date was the sixth of Boedromion, the feast of the Boedromia, when Theseus defeated the Amazons. A hundred and fifteen triremes put out; twenty-two were left dry; we had no more oars. No attempt was made to render the ships seaworthy.

We would worry about that later. Nicias delivered a speech, a good one, and Demosthenes made one too. Absent was the customary shirking of battle or the prayer for late-hour reprieve.

Every man stood to his place before dawn, and none wanted rousing. The troops of the army, under nine thousand, defended both extremities of the camp, one the seawall fronting Feverside, beyond whose expanse massed the Syracusan Temenites division under Hermocrates, forty thousand who had been a mob twelve months previous and were now crack troops. The west, the bluff called Bad News, was held by a palisade of rock and wood. Four thousand of ours faced twenty of the foe.

Twenty-seven thousand Athenians and allies embarked, eleven thousand fighting men, sixteen thousand at oars. The ships shoved off in darkness so profound the helmsmen could not make out vessels starboard or port but must steer by sound, the bow officer's tapstone and the chirp of the fog whistle. Here was an hour like no other. Each man would fight today, victory or death, to see children again, wife and country. None spoke or even sighed.

That which each could do, he would or die.

The ships advanced in column to their assembly marks, then formed in line abreast, twenty-five across and four deep, with a squadron of ten in reserve. Pandora's place was in the first rank, sixth from the left, the division under Demosthenes. The enemy's wall of ships lay east, a mile and a half. We could not see them, even their lamps, with the dark and the mist.

The waiting began. That interminable interval as the line dressed and all vessels were brought on station. Corvettes shuttled, completing count and relaying instructions. It is always cold on the water; men's teeth chattered in the dark. At their benches the sailors choked down a meal of bread, oil, and barley. Topside marines huddled in their cloaks, packed against the sidescreens saying nothing. For the twentieth time their orders were repeated.

No grub for us; it had been forgotten.

At last, at the cloaked lantern, the line moved off. There was no sound, no orders, nothing at all save the squeal of oar looms against their pins and leathers, the choonk of their blades as they bit, and the gliss of the surface spooling past along the hull. You could hear the tap of the cadence stones, light and clear, and the unisoned expulsion of breath as the oarsmen set their blades and pulled.

Pandora drove forward by surges.

The sky began to lighten. Our ships could be made out now. The spectacle they presented could not have appeared in more inglorious contrast to that golden aspect with which they had set off from home, so few seasons past and with such expectations.

Paintless and unadorned, displaying ensigns only to differentiate themselves from the foe, the warships ploughed low in the water as scows, burdened above decks with such a load of men-at-arms that they looked less like warcraft than ferries. Hides and skins bedecked their carapaces, topside to deflect incendiary bolts and along the waterline to shield the hold oarsmen at their banks.

Cloaked in this motley, the vessels appeared as some species of derelict, limping ragged upon the foe.

Like the others, Pandora's masts had been unstepped and left ashore. Prow- and sternpeaks had been cut down, replaced by platforms defended by sidescreens, with drop-planks at intervals as boarding ramps. The helmsman worked behind a bunker of timber and hides. “Make her ugly!” Pandora's captain Boros, her sixth since Athens, had urged his crew, laboring alongside them through the night. “Pandora must be a box of evil for the foe.”

Forward where her sail locker had been (my old snoozing spot), the foreships had been reinforced with timbers salvaged from our own ruined hulks. Triple-wide rams had been rigged to counter this innovation of the Corinthians. These outrigs stood vacant now, but on closing with the foe, marines would mount to each, armed with grapnels. The mass of epibatai, my squad and Lion's, held now aft of amidships, so their weight would keep the prow high and the oxhead clear of the water's drag. On the forepeak squatted the first of three firepots, from which darts and brands would be lit. A second stood beside me now, amidships, and a third by the steersman's bunker aft.

From my place inboard of the outrigger I could see into the foreships. Already Pandora was taking water in such quantities that the footboards of the hold oarsmen were awash. Scupper lads bailed on the beat, slinging the bilge past their comrades' ears out the hide-sheathed ports through which the oars projected.

Above the oarsmen's heads, new decks had been framed to support the mob of infantry, archers, and javelineers who now crouched topside, numbers retching already.

We could see the enemy now. His rampart of ships rose like a wall; the harbor had become a lake. Palisades had been erected, plaited with hides to retard incendiary missiles and notched with embrasures from which the enemy would loose his own artillery.

Before this the foe had spiked the surface with spars and timbers.

A gap had been left of about a furlong. Beyond this in the open sea we could see his warships, above forty, pulling hard in column.

They would come to line abreast, three and four deep, to bottle any Athenian breakout. Enemy small craft by the hundred filled out the field of obstacle, while upon both quarters further squadrons launched from shore. The foe held nine-tenths of the harbor perimeter. Gylippus' army waited at the margins of the swell. God help the ship and crew falling within their killing zone.

The line had been advancing at two-and-one, resting each bank by turns. Now, a half mile out, the boatswain piped “At the triple” and Pandora shot forward on the swell. On the forepeak Boros bellowed through his megaphone to skippers port and starboard, as each singled out the vessel he would attack. He scampered back with a little kick-step of joy. “Dolphins, lads! Racing the cutwater!” With a laugh he bolted aft to the steersman's post. Now came the prostates, the bow officer, a midshipman named Milo who had been caught in the grass with his lover and nicknamed Rhodopygos, Rosy Cheeks. He was an anxious sort, always dreading the worst, and now crabbed forward at the crouch, bearing above his crown an oak plank heavy as himself.

“Expecting rain, junior?” Lion called.

Rhodopygos frog-hopped back and forth, peeking over the prow to assess our distance from the enemy. At his signal we would press forward in a body, to launch our own missiles, while our weight would drop the ram at the deadliest instant. That was the plan anyway. In the end as ever chaos prevailed.

Three hundred yards out, clouds of enemy small craft swarmed at us out of the vapor. Darts and firebrands began clattering on the deck. Rosy Cheeks took a spike through the foot; in an instant we were all at the outrigger, unloading everything we had. Dead ahead rose the wall of ships. We would not make it. Two of the foreline converged on us, one a triple with a forepeak of a bare-breasted female, the other a converted galley beamy as a barge. The mob on her deck must have made a hundred. Pandora swung bows-on to meet her; the trireme lanced in on us from the flank. On our prow marines were slinging pinwheels onto the triple; arcs of smoke shot across the fast-foreshortening gap. The men launched javelins from their knees, then dropped prone behind the sidescreens as the enemy's volleys rainbowed in return. Both sides were hurling the rope-handled jars of smoking sulphur the Syracusans call

“scorpions” and Athenians “hello-the res.” Already all three craft were afire.

Now came the collision. The ships crunched together, Pandora and the converted freighter. But the angle was askew, and both vessels, foreships locked, began to slew sideways along each other's hull. Our marines flung grapnels across the interval; the foe replied with a fusillade of darts and stones. The enemy had stripped rails and drawn hides across all objects of purchase.

Grapnels were bouncing like beans. What heads caught, the enemy bashed free with mawls or hacked through with axes. One luckless bastard had been hooked through the calf and now hung, pinned against the mast step, while three of our marines hauled on the line with all their strength. Moments later Two Tits punched broadside into Pandora's belly, and, instants beyond, our own Dauntless reamed her up the ass.

The enemy bore stones, great boulders of thirty and forty pounds which he had stacked as ammunition along his prow and rails. He had his most cyclopean men forward; these now elevated their projectiles and heaved them into our sidescreens, staving them to splinters.

A titan of the foe led their wave. Six and a half feet and naked from the waist up, this ox strode onto our prow unarmed save one massive boulder, a sixty-pounder, which he wielded before him, bowling our marines from their feet. A youth named Elpenor opened the man's forearm to the bone; the brute turned with a bellow and drove his stone, crushing the marine's skull, then wheeled and stove another's face. With thighs like oaks he was kicking men over the side.

This was no time for heroics. I seized two others, Meton Armbreaker and Adrastus, whom they called Towhead, and hauled them to the monster's rear. We took him three-on-one, putting one spike through his liver and a second into his haunch. Towhead hacked through the hamstring with a boarding pike. The savage dropped to one knee, roaring. He never looked back to see who had unstrung him, just raised the great stone and flung it with all his strength into the bilges. It plunged through the undecked oarsmen's compartment, shearing off a second-banker at the knee, then crashed through the keelson timbers, shivering the hull like a shot. Up boiled the sea. Pandora was sinking.

It is impossible to reconstruct in afterthought the sequence of events, the sequence of sequences, transpiring so rapidly and amid such chaos, when one's faculties are deranged by rage and terror, fear for his men and himself. At one point a marine of the foe had me by the beard and was pounding the crown of my helmet edge-on with his shield with such fury that I felt the bone of my skull begin to rupture. I seized his testicles with all my strength and wrung free, the mass of my tangled whiskers coming off in his fist. I tumbled over the rail into the gallery of the outrigger. Lion, behind the man, decapitated him with a two-hand swipe, left-handed; helmet and skull pinwheeled onto my belly, gushing fluids, and bounded through the posts into the sea.

There is this aspect to fighting on the water: a man has no place to run. Somehow the mass of our company succeeded in capturing the galley, if such a term may be applied to the occupation of a pack of blazing tinder fast on its way to the bottom, achieving this triumph primarily because the scow was sinking from the stern and we advancing from the bow had the advantage of fighting downhill. We ploughed the enemy into the sea behind a wall of shields. An ancillary battle, grisly as the main, now commenced in the gutter between the burning hulks, as oarsmen of Pandora and Twin Tits, forced to abandon ship, grappled hand-to-hand, each seeking to drown the other. Ax and boarding pike had supplanted spear and javelin as weapons of favor. The shivered oar served as well. Marines hacked and stabbed and clubbed the foe in the water even as the decks on which they stood subsided beneath them. By this time the Athenian third and fourth waves had reached the enemy's rampart and were attacking it in escalade, like land troops assaulting a fortress. We were taken off the freighter onto Dauntless. In moments we, too, were on the wall.

My cousin narrated for me later how this spectacle had appeared from the vantage of shore. The wounded had pleaded with their physicians to bear them down to the sea. Each man's fate hung on battle's outcome; they could not bear to loiter in ignorance. The soldiers, too, had pressed down to the water's edge, even wading into the sea, as did the Syracusans along their shore, straining across the smoke-obscured main for any index of victory or defeat.

In the offing, my cousin said, the wall of ships could not be made out, only the smoke, black at the base and gray as it rose, ascending in thunderheads so dense it seemed the entire firmament was ablaze. In quarters about the harbor battles were being fought of such scale and savagery that, taken apart from this holocaust, would have been called epochal, yet which, accounted here within the context of such numbers of men and vessels in conflict, appeared as sideshows or afterwords. Of ships fighting in open water, my cousin reported, tactics and maneuver had long since been abandoned. Instead vessels grappled one to another and slugged it out, belly-la-belly. The surface of The harbor seemed sown with islands and archipelagoes of ships, four, six, and even ten fused, while the men on deck fought it out hand-to-hand, do or die.

About the ships in uncountable numbers swarmed the small craft of the Syracusans, dinghies and coracles, catboats and even rafts, manned by every urchin and pensioner who could hurl a firepot or bash a sailor's brains with bat or brick. You could tell which ships were Athenian by the clouds of mosquito boats about them, piking at the steersmen's blades, slinging missiles or driving into the banks, seeking to foul the oars.

As the tide of battle alternated, the consternation produced upon the men witnessing from shore became excruciating. Directly one beheld comrades embracing in elation, my cousin recounted, as the warcraft of their nation drove the foe in flight. Now the men's gaze bent to another quadrant where the opposite state prevailed. Despair at once repossessed their hearts; with dreadful dirges the spectators bewailed their doom, crying to heaven those lamentations as men are wont to make in such hours.

As if this audience may not suffice, a supplemental took station in the summit seats. These were the wives and daughters of the Syracusans, looking on from the city battlements which directly overstood the arena, so proximate that the dames' cries could be heard by their champions below. Whose ship boldly struck at an Athenian was requited with acclamation resounding, while he, beleaguered, who sought to withdraw retreated into cataracts of scorn.

On the wall of ships, our side was winning.

The enemy had strung together above two hundred vessels, merchantmen and barges, scows and galleys as well as men-of-war, the line bound by rope and timber so that their front presented a solid rampart broadside to the attackers. Against this the ships of Athens hurled themselves. The fight differed from all others in my experience in this particular: nowhere upon the field could one discover vessel or man holding back. So possessed was each side by the passion to prevail, the Athenians to escape extinction, the Syracusans and their allies to wreak vengeance upon those who had made war to enslave them and, more so, to wrest the deathless renown of driving them down to ruin, that none gave thought to saving his skin but each sought to outdo the other in skill and valor. Midway through the forenoon I fell, hamstrung by that hyperextension called a “bonebreaker,” plummeting from the deck of a barge into its belly, which was awash chest-deep and into whose depths I sank like a stone.

Chowder hauled me topside, where we discovered a pocket of haven, and he went to work on my leg. “Look there, Pommo”-my mate pointed down the line of strife-“have you ever seen the like of it?”

I stared. As far as sight could carry, the sea stood curtained with smoke and paved with warcraft. Immediately left, a battleship had rammed one of the vessels in the wall; all three of her banks were backing water furiously, to extract and ram again, while across the breach screamed storms of stones, darts, and brands of such density that the air appeared solid with steel and flame. As the Athenian's ram sucked free, rending the foe's guts, a second battleship materialized, hurtling upon the same vessel. Her ram took the enemy's stern, lifting her entire after-section clear. Men topside spilled like pegs. As the struck ship hung impaled, her elevated weight forcing the ramming vessel's prow into the sea, while yet denser fusillades screamed between the antagonists, the first ship, having backed clear to a boat-length, rammed the same ship anew. To the opposite hand, three Athenian galleys had grapneled to vessels in the wall. So intervolved were the marines of both sides that there were more Syracusans on the decks of the Athenian ships and the contrary upon the Syracusan. Out beyond the attackers, three more cruisers of Athens passed with murderous slowness, archers unleashing broadsides of tow and pitch over their own and into the enemy. As one vessel in the wall caught, flame leapt to its consort, borne by the wind or men who pitched or hurled or shot it. By sun's zenith a dozen breaches had been punched in the palisade. At one point, Lion told me later, he saw three battleships of Athens pass abreast through the wall, led by Demosthenes' Implacable, making signal “Follow me.”

We had won. And yet…

The enemy still held both jaws of the vise, the city promontory of Ortygia and Plemmyrium, the Rock, the southern mandible of the harbor mouth, between which the wall of ships extended. He had fifty thousand at one end, twenty at the other, and they kept pouring out onto the wall. Where the line of ships had been breached, the foe's small craft flooded in and sealed the rupture.

Flea boats ferried replacements across the breaks, while others hauled themselves over the timber and chain bindings which yet anchored the embattled wall. Morning had gone; we were slaughtering the enemy in such numbers that he could not, it was certain, hold out much longer.

There is an error in densely packed fighting committed by those lacking experience of war, even brave men, as the Syracusans and their allies were, and this is called in Sparta “downstreaming” or

“rat-holing.” A man dueling in this fashion will stand against the individual facing him, receive or deliver a blow or several, and then, he and his antagonist unhurt, roll or shift laterally to the next of the enemy, to commence a second bashing match and in turn sideslip again. Fear makes him do this. He seeks a closet of refuge, a “rat hole” amid the slaughter. In Sparta boys are beaten who evince this habit. They are schooled instead to fight “upfield,” to seize one man and battle him alone until one or the other falls. This the Lacedaemonians call monopale, “singling up.” The Syracusans had not learned this art, for all Gylippus' direction. Now on the wall of ships the superior experience of the Athenians began to tell.

It came to this: fighting topside, twenty against twenty, forty on forty, a parataxis, pitched battle, in miniature. Or brawling belowdecks man upon man, in water thigh- and hip-deep, the walls, often afire, pinning friend and foe in the cylinder of slaughter. The Athenians had the hang of it. And they possessed a further advantage. Defenders on the sea must of necessity kill men, never an easy business. But attackers need only destroy things. The marines of Athens went after the wall with fire and the ax. Ship after ship had its belly gutted, hull torched; along the rampart hulks settled, sizzling, to the waterline.

I had found Lion and Telamon. Reunited, we were hacking through a jacket of timbers, eight logs bound with belts of iron, that yoked one section of enemy line to another. Too exhausted to stand, Lion and I straddled the timber, bashing with blades blunt as butter knives. Here came the foe. Flea boats bearing slingers hauled upon us from another smoking hulk. There were ten in our party. Telamon, Lion, and Chowder were the only ones I knew; the others had collected by ones and twos; I never learned their names. One with a red beard trumpeted to a cruiser, calling for fire. As he shouted, a bullet tore his throat out; he dropped like a gunny of rocks. The shooter vaunted, already reloaded with his sling whistling overhead. I heard an alarm from behind. Somehow another score of enemy had got onto the hulk we had just crossed from. Two more slinger boats closed from seaward. We had no helmets; all shields had been ditched. We were sitting ducks. Lead bullets screamed past. Telamon yelled go; we hit the drink. An hour later we were on another hulk, hacking through another sheaf of timbers, each man with only a pilos cap and whatever rags still clung to his body.

The enemy kept coming. They flooded in hundreds from Ortygia and the Rock. There was no end to them. They were strong and rested, they had food in their bellies and fresh legs beneath them.

They were not slashed or beaten or concussed. The shafts of their weapons had not been shivered by blows daylong struck and fended. They did not bear bone-weary, as we did, the third and fourth shield of the hour, snatched from the discards of comrades dead and dying. They breathed with lungs unchoked by smoke and unseared by fire; their guts held fresh water; they could still sweat.

Yet with all this, our men would still have prevailed if not for wind and tide. The sun had transited now, dropping hard toward shore; now the breeze got up. The tide turned in evil conjunction.

There is a channel called the Race, abutting the isle of Ortygia, through which the current, compressed by the configuration of shoreline and sea bottom, streams at tide's turn with unwonted velocity. Now the foe opened a break in his ships' wall. The race shot through, driving our vessels back. Worse, twenty warships of the Corinthians now appeared, rounding the point from the north.

Driven by the stiffening breeze and emboldened by this impetus of heaven, they fell upon the vessels of Athens engaged at sea, including Implacable, putting them to flight.

Our oarsmen could not drive into this rising gale. Broken with exhaustion, rowers “caught crabs,” fouling their mates' oars. The wind struck their slewed surfaces and began to head them. The tidal race heightened their way. Those vessels which managed to come bows-on to the gust, which they must merely to hold position, discovered themselves vulnerable to attack from the flank, by the inrushing Corinthians with their fresh crews and by those others of the Syracusans now rallying behind the cry that the gods had answered their prayers, by sending this gale to rout the foe. I was on the cruiser Aristeia now, the fifth or sixth ship of the day, when her commander turned to ram one of the oncoming Corinthians. Our ship was literally moving backward, so stout was the gale. The Corinthian slipped her with ease, put her helm over, and wheeled, outboard banks pulling while inboard backed, to ram us amidships. The cruiser fled stern-first, backing water amid fresh broadsides of missiles. The Corinthian, hampered herself by the wind as it struck her now from abeam, managed only a glancing blow upon Aristeia's prow, but this was sufficient to open a tear broad enough for a man and boy to pass through abreast. The sea flooded in. A mile still remained to shore.

The oarsmen pulled with the desperation of men who know they have been vanquished and that their conquerors, falling on them, will grant no quarter. They could hear Gylippus' men along the foreshore, ravening for blood. Men groaned in despair; limbs quaked as if palsied. The ship fled into the shadows thrown by Epipolae, across the dark water which now extended hundreds of yards out from the shore. It was cold, like the morning.

Aristeia ran afoul at the Athenian palisade. Earlier vessels, jamming up in flight, had beaten the stakes from alignment, or ripped out their own bellies rushing upon them. Marines and sailors now ganged the surface by hundreds, laboring to restore the front. I glimpsed Lion and Chowder, striving in this chore. Why did they have to be so noble? With a cry I plunged in to aid them. I had no weapon, shoes, nothing. My flesh had been wrung to enervation. So had everyone's. We could feel death, not alone in the cold and dark but in our bones.

I could see the battleships of Corinth and Syracuse sweeping down upon our rampart like great winged creatures of prey. They advanced as in a dream. By the gods, they were beautiful! Divers strove in the water beside me, seeking to rig to a float of timbers the chain that yoked two submerged hedgehogs. The weight kept dragging the float under; the men struggled to hurl its monkey fist to the marines astraddle the platform, but the strength of their arms failed; the rope flopped to the surface with a slapping sound, again and again short of the mark. Two ships of the foe had centered on our gap; they were closing so fast the first ironheads flung by their toxotai were already ripping the water at our elbows.

More men thrashed to our aid from shore. After ungodly exertions, the chain was at the last seated in its notch and drawn taut.

With titanic impact the foremost battleship flung herself upon the palisade. I saw Chowder, fouled among the lines. A pike drove through the gristle of his neck. Diving for our lives, Lion and I could hear the rampart's submerged stakes, massive as trees, plunge into the foe's guts and the hedgehog's spikes rend her belly.

Still the Corinthian's oarsmen heaved, seeking to tear a breach through which her sisters would pour, bringing fire to those vessels of Athens battered and broken behind the barricade.

The maddest melee of the day now ensued. Athenians like ants swarmed upon the impaled dreadnought. The dead made a carpet upon the sea. Our men hauled themselves bare-handed up the shafts of the enemy's oars, hacking at her bankers through the hide-defended ports, while the foe's marines piked in return from topside and their archers rained fire point-blank. Pitch bolts which the enemy's bowmen had flung into the beached craft of Athens, our men now plucked still blazing and slung again upon the assailants. The Corinthian was going down now, adding her hulk to the fragile bastion which yet preserved us. Out beyond the stakes another dozen men-of-war had drawn up broadside, deep in shadow, archers launching their tow shafts upon us while their oarsmen sang the paean in triumph and joy.

I found Lion in the wash of bodies. Chowder was dead, Splinter slain earlier with an ax. The waves, barely enough to topple an infant, buffeted us to our knees; we must crab in on hips and elbows, shuddering with such violence as to no longer command our own limbs.

Our cousin Simon hauled us from the soup. He got wine into us, clasping me in his cloaked embrace; others swathed Lion, abrading his flesh to restore the warmth of blood. Despair rang from every quarter, such chagrin more acute among those unable this day to fight, the army and the wounded who could only look on without striking a blow. I glanced up the strand and thought, This is what hell must look like.

Above us a knot of seamen labored to resuscitate a comrade. No hope. At last the final man yielded and pitched. Night was on us.

Across the darkening field the warships of the foe quartered, piking the last of our seamen bereft upon the swell and calling that we would not tarry long to join them. Beside Lion and my cousin, the clutch of sailors peered hollow-eyed on this tableau.

“Did you see him out there?” one uttered in awe and dread. “He was on the ships, fighting for the enemy.”

“He was there when they broke us, leading them.”

“No one could stand before him.”

What nonsense was this? Would these morons claim to have descried Poseidon, or Zeus himself, among the champions of the foe?

“Who the hell are you talking about?” I demanded. “What phantom do you madmen think you saw?”

The sailor turned as if I were the madman.

“Alcibiades,” he declared.