Alkibiades, a tale of the Great Athenian War

by Charles Hamilton Bromby

The day after the meeting of the Assembly which has just been described saw another, and a very different, scene enacted in the streets and ports of Athens. The great fleet was just about to sail. At dawn the accused general rode at the head of the departing troops from the city to Peiræus. Alkibiades rode on his good horse Ephialtes, the horse his first-born son had loved, and which had been called after him.

He had bidden a long farewell to the old paternal mansion, when Amykla brought the infant Alkibiades, that his father might embrace him ere he left. But this was no time for sentiment. He was about to do, to be, that which he had desired to do and be ever since he was a boy playing with his schoolmates in the very streets he was now to march through proudly.

These streets were lined with the thronging populace as the troops marched by. Multitudes followed them upon the way. All who had brothers, sons, beloved ones, among them followed. When they reached the port, there lay the big warships decked out magnificently. The impatient Lamachos had already been on board his vessel for some time, chafing at the delay, caring little for the doings at the Ekklesia. All he cared for was to be at Syrakuse, fighting the Syrakusans. As for Nikias, he had stolen down the night before, not sure of the reception the populace might give him after the conduct of Pythonikos.

Flowers decked the great triremes from prow to stern, silver goblets glittered on the higher decks. All was jollity as the hoplites, the archers, and the other light-armed soldiers, and a small force of cavalry, marched on board the transport ships. They were not long in embarkation. Then the trumpets sounded, and the whole army stood upon the decks, Alkibiades upon the stern-deck of his Eros, the finest trireme of them all, built and furnished at his own expense.

The heralds prayed the gods, and especially Poseidôn and the god of war, and Pallas, to be propitious to them, favouring their arms. Then every one of the soldiers, even the humblest marine, poured forth libations. This was a scene never to be forgotten by the vast crowd who saw it, as every soldier poured out libations from silver cups, the higher officers from golden vessels, to the gods.

The multitudes upon the quays joined in the prayers, and echoed back the sacred hymns and pæans boasting of success, when the rowers took their places, and when to the time chanted by their leader, with rhythmic oar they struck the old Aigaian waters. And the great ships one by one filed out of the Peiræus.

The August sun shone on the brazen shields and breast-plates, and was reflected on the spears and swords of that strong host, which thus left Athens splendidly. How many of them, ships or men, were ever again to see the much-loved city? Loud cries of confidence and farewell, echoing along the shore, followed them upon their way, and then the sailors, warriors, and Alkibiades saw last of all the great Akropolis and the statue of Athene.

It was with an exulting heart that, standing on the stern, he caught the last sight of that fair city. But had he a prescient foresight even now of the years which must pass over him and Athens, of all he was about to suffer, of the sins against her he was to commit, before he should next time look upon the virgin goddess and her holy temple? Perhaps it might be such prophetic vision, or perchance only the result of the pain he had suffered, the indignation he had felt, or a natural reaction after the excitement of the long day’s work—the greatest day, perhaps, but one of all his troubled life—certain it was he felt unsatisfied and almost gloomy. There seemed to be something floating between him and victory as he stood there—something coming and going between him and his future fame. He was half inclined to believe it was a guide, a monitor, a daimôn, such as Sokrates had told him of, that was warning him, but with a voice so indistinct he could scarcely understand it, telling him he was entering upon a path that would lead him far away.

His sensitive and nervous nature—for with all his readiness and boldness he was sensitive and nervous—had recoiled before the charges brought against him. Perhaps this accounted for his feeling. His intelligence penetrated the designs of insidious enemies, capable of any secret crime against him, or against the state, so they might gratify their hate. He believed—and history has supported him in his belief—that the outrage upon unoffending statues of a beneficent god was the clumsy act of a band of unknown enemies, who thought, in some vague way, they might fix the crime on him; that, failing in that scheme, some of them had then, by a more artful and dangerous plan, suborned a slave, and instructed him to make a specific charge against him when he was on the eve of leaving Athens.

In his secret soul he feared their machinations while he was away, with no one at home to stamp the poison out, as he could have done had he been there. His soul revolted from the injustice of it all; and as he stood out to sea, his highest hopes apparently attained, one of the commanders of the grandest expedition Athens had ever ventured on the waves, there was a melancholy, a feeling of unrest, of aspirations even now unsatisfied. And when the night fell, and the lights grew indistinct along the coast, as he turned him in to sleep he sighed.