Alkibiades, a tale of the Great Athenian War

by Charles Hamilton Bromby

The cordial terms upon which these two representatives of both branches of the great family remained with one another then, and always afterwards, in spite of the strong part taken by Alkibiades against Lakedaimôn, is a sufficient refutation of the calumny on him, first formulated by Thoukydides—who never can resist the temptation of an opportunity to bear false witness against the leader of a side opposed to him in politics—that, with a cunning alien to his whole character, he deliberately misled his guest and relative by an unworthy trick, and induced the Spartan ambassadors to deny their powers.

Not only his friendship with Endios, but the way in which he was afterwards received by Sparta, is enough to dispose of the accusation, without pointing out that the ambassadors would have been below the ordinary level of human beings in intelligence, instead of being picked diplomatists, if they could have been taken in by any such artifice as that ascribed to Alkibiades, which would not have been noticed here had not the tale of Thoukydides been repeated by nearly every historian since he wrote.

The Spartan ambassadors appeared before the Senate, and, amongst other things, declared they had full powers to treat with Athens. They were favourably received, and referred to a meeting of the Assembly to be held in a few days, at which the ambassadors of Argos and her allies were also to appear.

In fact, the Spartan envoys had exaggerated their powers before the Senate. They had really only been sent to gain time, to prevent the threatened alliance with the other Peloponnesian states, not to bind Lakedaimôn by any precise obligations. Having incautiously declared they were entrusted with powers they did not in fact possess, they now saw it would be necessary when they came before the Ekklesia, the fundamental ruler of Athens, to modify their unqualified pretence.

The appointed day arrived. A summons to the citizens to attend a meeting of the Ekklesia to be held that day at the Pnyx was made by criers throughout the town. A notice of the questions to be discussed, of the business to be done, was placed upon the well-known post in the old Agora. At dawn the huge semicircular theatre, cut out of the rock from which it took its name, with its innumerable seats of stone, was duly purified. Then came the heralds’ solemn prayer, with the offering of incense, and the curse on all who should give evil counsel or deceive the people.

By this time the citizens had assembled, and all, except the rich, received a token entitling them to the payment of an obolos for their attendance. They came in more than their ordinary numbers this day, for the business was interesting and important, and it was rumoured that Alkibiades would speak.

The people took their seats according to their several tribes. The President of the Prytanes—those whose duty it was, each successive month, to guard in turn the sacred fire, symbol of a common hearth of the one great family at Athens—called on the business of the day, and then put the ancient formal question: ‘Who wishes to speak?’

The Spartans, as allies, had the right of prior audience. They came forward and attempted to explain their conduct. After making several lame excuses, on being pressed, they admitted they had not full powers to pledge their country for the future.

Then Alkibiades arose, mounted the great stone steps that led to the bema, or tribune, which Solon and Aristeides, Themistokles and Perikles, had often trod before—and which the traveller may still see standing there silently, as they stood more than two thousand years ago—and found himself alone on that exalted platform, about to engage the whole attention of the vast audience.

At the first utterance of his pent-up thoughts his countenance glowed with animation. His personality seemed to himself to be projected on to the listening multitude. Almost unconscious of his individuality, there was a consciousness of a great silence round about him—a silence of everything except his own voice, which sounded as from a distance on his ears. He felt the rapt attention of the crowd, and saw ten thousand faces turned to him, their eyes fixed on him alone. He marvelled for a moment at his rush of eloquence, his facility of speech, his ready argument. Yet it was altogether different to that which they had been accustomed to from Kleon. There was no ranting, no pacing up and down. He had not studied in the schools of rhetoric in vain. Even the lessons he had learnt among the Sophists were of use to him. There was a conciseness, a conclusiveness, in his arguments. His very hesitation sometimes for a word, when he wished to be precise, the repetition which he sometimes made of one sentence ere he began another, which he sometimes made, gave an added power to his utterance. But there was something more than this—a soul which spake from out the depths, and went to the souls of his hearers, holding them captive. His splendid presence, his graceful action, lent a charm to all he said, and when roused to passion his whole face seemed transformed, his eyes fired with the latent energy within.