Alkibiades, a tale of the Great Athenian War

by Charles Hamilton Bromby

And here, here he was shut up with nothing to look at but the fine Grecian theatre and racecourse, lying at the foot of the high rock, or the constant, endless view from his prison windows of the peaceful valley of the Hermos, and of the country beyond, stretching into the dim distance, a view which may still be seen by the traveller who ascends to-day the crumbling remains of the rock on which stood the citadel of Sardis, where Alkibiades and his companion were imprisoned.

It seemed to him, however, after a time, that the guards grew slacker in their watch. Sometimes, especially in the evening, he noticed that if a fresh guard did not come at the proper time, the others, tired of their cold, dreary duty, went off before they were relieved. He knew from old experience how much more the Easterns leave to chance than the better disciplined Greek soldiers would dare to do. He could see through the gateway the tired guard pacing up and down, and one or two beggars who came for broken victuals. He sometimes amused himself by throwing small coins to the half-starved mendicants to see them scramble for the money.

This unwonted good fortune was soon noised about among the beggars, and brought others, till, whenever he took his evening exercise, a number, drawn by news of this largess, clamoured at the gateway. Even the guards were not above joining in the scramble sometimes when no one saw them, and would push the ragged crowd away, to pick up the scattered coins themselves. Alkibiades did not discourage this, and the good-natured warder who was in charge pretended not to see it. Emboldened by their liberty, some beggars would even thrust their hands through the bars, piteously praying for his dole, and still the warder only laughed if he caught them speaking to his prisoner.

So a whole month passed. It was on the last day of that first month of his incarceration, when the crowd of beggars was greater, and they were crying out more loudly than ever as they pushed their lean, dirty hands through to him, that he noticed a hand which looked different, stronger than the others, and which was unopened. Struck with the strange sight of an unopened hand pushed through the gates, he gently touched it; it opened slightly, and he saw a minute scroll rolled up inside. He took it, unseen by the warder, and throwing some coins to the poor mendicants, retired to his room. He opened the scroll. There was just light enough to read the few words on the rolled-up papyrus leaf. On it was written in well-known characters, ‘Hour after sunset courtyard wall.’

In an hour’s time he and Mantitheos were in the courtyard. It was dark. After waiting a short time they heard the guard go off singing a Persian song. All was quiet. Presently a rope was thrown over the high wall from outside. Mantitheos fastened the end securely to the trunk of a tree. To an athlete like Alkibiades, to haul himself up a wall even of that height was an easy matter. Mantitheos quickly followed, fear aiding him in his ascent. First Alkibiades, then Mantitheos, went down the other side hand over hand, and arrived at the bottom, with no greater injury than bleeding hands and legs. They found a strong, ragged-looking man, in an old Persian sailor’s dress, who, throwing the end of the rope over the wall, walked rapidly in front. The fugitives followed silently.

A light shot for a moment from the warder’s gate across their path. The voice of the warder was heard calling after them. No one heeded it. The light disappeared. The three quickened their pace. The warder, suddenly roused by the noise, had cried out on his first impulse, then, realizing what had happened, held his peace. He had reason to believe that his lord, having shown his good faith towards Sparta and the king, would not be sorry for his prisoner’s escape.

In almost less time than it has taken to write down this speculation on the warder’s thoughts, the fugitives had made their way down the narrow track leading from the citadel, had passed by the side of the ruins of the splendid temple of Kybele, built by the old Lydian kings, and burnt by the Ionians before the town was taken by the Persians, had forded the shallow Paktôlos, and were soon outside the unwalled town. There, in a thick wood on the northern ascent of the hill, they found three small mountain ponies tethered to a tree. The stranger—who of course was Agrestides—loosed them, the three mounted, and away they went!

By a secluded path with which their guide had made himself well acquainted, they got into the wild mountain country of the Tmolian range, and on they rode through the dark, stormy night. It was the depth of winter; the rain at first, and then, as they got higher up, the blinding snow, blew hard in their faces. Progress was slow. They dare not keep the level road along the valley of the Hermos. The only safe path for them was on the ridge of the chain of mountains from Mount Tmôlos, over Drakôn, Clympos, and Mastousia.

The ponies, native to the mountains, knew the path as well in the dark as by day, but their pace was very slow, and morning was breaking over Sardis before they had made much way. They reached at length a ruined temple of Artemis; there they hid themselves. Mantitheos showed signs of breaking down; all three were drenched and tired out.

As the day got on it grew finer, and they determined to venture out again, in hopes of reaching a small village that Agrestides knew of, where they might be able to obtain some food. The snow was thick upon the ground; Mantitheos was getting weaker. Alkibiades gave him his cloak, which they had managed to dry at a small fire which Agrestides had made inside the ruined temple. Though the snow impeded their progress, it stopped the dreaded pursuit. They heard the wolves howling round them, and saw foxes skulking about, ravenous, like themselves, for food. There was some difficulty in getting Mantitheos along. There was no sign of human habitation till they reached a small, desolate village at nightfall. Mantitheos was quite worn out.