The Hemlock Cup - Bettany Hughes [120]
The columns of soldiers who marched out of Athens, heading here on paths dust-hard at the end of a long summer, were, literally, ideological. They carried with them a word idea, demos-kratia, democracy, that had been in existence for a scant forty years. Their instructions were to take Boeotian territories, and to take the Boeotian people from under the oligarchs’ noses; to make Delion a pro-democratic base from which Athens could hoover up other territories, other cultures, other ‘less democratic’ political systems. On the face of it, the motivation was high-minded. But in reality this was a war-game. By breaking the Boeotian alliance to Sparta, the Athenians would eradicate the Peloponnesian War’s northern front, which was, really, too close for comfort.
By the time Socrates arrived here in Delion six years had passed since he last saw active service. And now he was stepping out with 7,000 men – a full hoplite force of Athens. Alongside the soldiers were as many as 20,000 civilians: camp-followers, construction workers, corpse-gatherers, all there to secure a tactical victory. Each hoplite’s batman had packed his provisions: a bag of flour, jars of wine and water, snacks (salted fish was a favourite) wrapped in fig leaves, sleeping mats, spare leather straps, shovels, hoes, axes, scythes to destroy enemy crops, money to buy spare food or your way out of a ransom demand.5 This was a satellite-city on the move, nomadic, marching to protect the mother ship.
But Athens’ plan6 – to bring democracy to the north – would fail, and 1,000 hoplites, along with 1,000 unarmed men, would die. Socrates was one of the few foot soldiers to survive.
Delion was supposed to be a surprise attack, but Boeotia was well supplied with spies and, learning of the Athenian advance, managed to make herself ready for the onslaught. The Athenians arrived in two deployments, yet failed to coordinate and were separated by a vital twenty-four hours and 15 miles. Then they added insult to incompetence. The Athenian idealists, it seems, made a dreadful religious gaffe. News of their faux-pas had filtered through the clouds around Mount Olympus to affront winged Nike, the goddess of victory – and suddenly it was not at all clear that Athens was going to win this battle that it had picked. Athenian troops had elected to fortify themselves in Delion’s Temple of Apollo and to use a sacred spring as the camp sluice. As locals heard of their total lack of respect for the gods and disregard for centuries of combat-convention, their gorge rose. Outrage sharpened the claws of pragmatism.
Socrates and his peers would have prayed to their gods, made a libation and then, with a sudden clanking, the battle began. But immediately there was another unforeseen challenge. When it came to the fighting, the Boeotian enemy was configured in an unusual way; on the battlefield the Theban hoplites were twenty-five rather than the normal eight men deep. There was confusion, and at one point fighters were so close they could not see who it was that they were puncturing, throttling, grinding down. The casualties from this friendly-fire were significant. This was a matted mass of men stabbing out wildly at any flesh they could reach. The sun might have been bright in the sky, but sweat, dust, blood, snot, the deafening hum of their helmets and metal skull-shields blinded and disorientated the warrior-democrats.
Athena’s brave soldiers start to turn and flee.
And then the enemy cavalry pursued them. Charging down the hill, stumbling, chests heaving, the Athenians ran for their lives, discarding their heavy, chafing armour as they went – into the woods, to the foothills of Mount Parnes and eventually, thankfully, under a cloak of darkness as the sun set. This is difficult territory to escape into. The ravines