lit.”
As we were leaving Themistocles took my arm and whispered.
“The symposium will be a major test for Cimon: you make sure he keeps a clear head, remains sober and passes it.”
Next evening’s walk to the house of Phrasicles was, for me, impregnated with memories: bitter and sweet. It was here that Miltiades and Themistocles had tested whether they could be allies and almost came to blows as a consequence. It was also where I first met Aeschylus and Lyra; it all seems so long ago.
Cimon, freshly washed with his long hair properly dressed and oiled, wearing one of his father’s robes, bubbled with excitement. This was his first real step along the road his father had trod. We walked with Aeschylus behind Themistocles and his brother Agesilaus. In Aeschylus’s words it was almost the same cast as last time, before Marathon.
It was dusk when we were admitted into the beautiful courtyard where, years before, the even more beautiful flute girl had cleaned up my tunic after I had disgraced myself in drink. I can still almost taste her sweet breath. Oh, Lyra; if only the Gods would let us back to try again. Forgive me, reader, I ramble.
But any nostalgia was quickly replaced by surprise. There were but ten of us in the andron that night. Theother five were Phrasicles, Ajax, a distant Philiad relation of Cimon’s two men I didn’t know and, on the couch of honour, Xanthippus.
While slaves removed our sandals to wash our feet the tension in the room tightened like an anchor rope. I think that although neither Themistocles nor Xanthippus was surprised to see each other, they realised the stakes. Remember, back then the rules of governing the Demos were being made up from day to day. We picked at the choice dishes of fish and eel on the low tables but without appetite; conversation was desultory. At last the jugs and cups were set up and Phrasicles stood to perform the duties of symposiarch. But this was no ordinary symposium.
“Phrasicles, you are the most honourable of men and an example to all other hosts but I fear even your skills are unequal to stimulating a worthy debate on the principles of Isonomy. We are here for another purpose and one that will not wait.”
Xanthippus had spoken well but Phrasicles looked unsure of how to proceed. He mumbled an offer to withdraw but was interrupted by Themistocles.
“No, as host your place is here: all shall remain to listen to what, in the next minutes, could decide the future of the city of the Goddess Athena. There is no place for secrecy or subterfuge in the principle of Isonomy or the rule of the Demos.”
I don’t know how he managed to say this with a straight face, perhaps at the moment he believed it. Xanthippus couldn’t; he tried to look stern and impassive beneath his bulging forehead but then he cracked, trying to stifle a giggle that became an uncontrollable fit of laughter.
“By all the Gods, Son of Neocles, how do you manage it?”
He had to stop and wipe his eyes before gasping out,
“You should let your scribbler take notes; the length of one Chou of wine with you in this form would give himenough material for ten of his satyr plays. How can you get so far up your own arse?”
Then Themistocles laughed; whether it was genuine or not I don’t know but it achieved its purpose. We could begin. Only the delicate matter of who would speak first, who would control the agenda needed to be settled. It was then that Cimon, who had been whispering with Aeschylus, took his first step in what we now call politics.
“Was this not the very room in which you, Strategos Themistocles, and my late father began the process that led to Marathon? The battle in which you both fought in the front line.”
On the surface it was the question of a callow youth. But the mixture of courtesy and admiration coupled with a memory of the dead hero whose partnership with Themistocles led to the battle settled with great subtlety who would speak first.
As we were leaving Themistocles took my arm and whispered.
“The symposium will be a major test for Cimon: you make sure he keeps a clear head, remains sober and passes it.”
Next evening’s walk to the house of Phrasicles was, for me, impregnated with memories: bitter and sweet. It was here that Miltiades and Themistocles had tested whether they could be allies and almost came to blows as a consequence. It was also where I first met Aeschylus and Lyra; it all seems so long ago.
Cimon, freshly washed with his long hair properly dressed and oiled, wearing one of his father’s robes, bubbled with excitement. This was his first real step along the road his father had trod. We walked with Aeschylus behind Themistocles and his brother Agesilaus. In Aeschylus’s words it was almost the same cast as last time, before Marathon.
It was dusk when we were admitted into the beautiful courtyard where, years before, the even more beautiful flute girl had cleaned up my tunic after I had disgraced myself in drink. I can still almost taste her sweet breath. Oh, Lyra; if only the Gods would let us back to try again. Forgive me, reader, I ramble.
But any nostalgia was quickly replaced by surprise. There were but ten of us in the andron that night. Theother five were Phrasicles, Ajax, a distant Philiad relation of Cimon’s two men I didn’t know and, on the couch of honour, Xanthippus.
While slaves removed our sandals to wash our feet the tension in the room tightened like an anchor rope. I think that although neither Themistocles nor Xanthippus was surprised to see each other, they realised the stakes. Remember, back then the rules of governing the Demos were being made up from day to day. We picked at the choice dishes of fish and eel on the low tables but without appetite; conversation was desultory. At last the jugs and cups were set up and Phrasicles stood to perform the duties of symposiarch. But this was no ordinary symposium.
“Phrasicles, you are the most honourable of men and an example to all other hosts but I fear even your skills are unequal to stimulating a worthy debate on the principles of Isonomy. We are here for another purpose and one that will not wait.”
Xanthippus had spoken well but Phrasicles looked unsure of how to proceed. He mumbled an offer to withdraw but was interrupted by Themistocles.
“No, as host your place is here: all shall remain to listen to what, in the next minutes, could decide the future of the city of the Goddess Athena. There is no place for secrecy or subterfuge in the principle of Isonomy or the rule of the Demos.”
I don’t know how he managed to say this with a straight face, perhaps at the moment he believed it. Xanthippus couldn’t; he tried to look stern and impassive beneath his bulging forehead but then he cracked, trying to stifle a giggle that became an uncontrollable fit of laughter.
“By all the Gods, Son of Neocles, how do you manage it?”
He had to stop and wipe his eyes before gasping out,
“You should let your scribbler take notes; the length of one Chou of wine with you in this form would give himenough material for ten of his satyr plays. How can you get so far up your own arse?”
Then Themistocles laughed; whether it was genuine or not I don’t know but it achieved its purpose. We could begin. Only the delicate matter of who would speak first, who would control the agenda needed to be settled. It was then that Cimon, who had been whispering with Aeschylus, took his first step in what we now call politics.
“Was this not the very room in which you, Strategos Themistocles, and my late father began the process that led to Marathon? The battle in which you both fought in the front line.”
On the surface it was the question of a callow youth. But the mixture of courtesy and admiration coupled with a memory of the dead hero whose partnership with Themistocles led to the battle settled with great subtlety who would speak first.
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