Thus, without a blow being struck, an immense access of strength had been brought to the besieged, and the grand condition of successful resistance, on which Alcibiades had laid such weight, was fulfilled. A Spartan officer of consummate ability was now in Syracuse, and he had made his way into the city, not alone, not by stealth, but at the head of an army, and before the very eyes of the enemy. Weeks must have elapsed between the departure of Gylippus from Leucas, and his arrival at Syracuse; and during all this time, with one trifling exception, Nicias made no effort to oppose his progress. Prudent men might well have regarded the enterprise of Gylippus as a wild and desperate adventure; and such it must have proved, but for the astounding blindness and apathy of Nicias.
At the time when Gylippus reached Syracuse the Athenian lines of circumvallation were all but completed on the side of the Great Harbour; but a wide interval was still left between the Circle and the northern sea, and it was here that Gylippus had effected an entrance. To keep this space open was a matter of supreme importance, and the scene of action is now shifted again to the northern slope of Epipolae. On the day after his arrival Gylippus succeeded in capturing the Athenian fort at Labdalum, and the command of this position gave increased facilities for the construction of a third counterwall, which was forthwith taken in hand, and carried in the direction of Labdalum, until it crossed the blockading line at its northern end.
If the Syracusans succeeded in completing and holding this counterwork, the blockade of Syracuse would be rendered impossible. Yet for some time Nicias made no attempt to interrupt its progress. As if already convinced of his inferiority in the field, he took steps to keep his communications open by sea, and with this object he employed a part of his forces in fortifying the headland of Plemmyrium, which commanded the entrance to the Great Harbour. Here he built three forts which served as an arsenal for the Athenian stores; and henceforth Plemmyrium became the chief station for his fleet. This removal had a disastrous effect on the Athenian crews; for the place being almost a desert, and the springs distant and scanty, they were compelled to go far from their quarters in search of forage and water, and while thus engaged they were cut off in great numbers by the Syracusan horse, who had been posted at Polichne for this purpose. A rapid demoralization of the crews was the consequence, and desertions became more frequent every day.
Meanwhile the counterwall was advancing steadily up the hill, and every day Gylippus drew up his army, to cover the operations of the workmen. At last he determined to force on an engagement, and in the first encounter the Syracusans, fighting in a confined space, which prevented their cavalry from coming into action, suffered a defeat. In no wise discouraged by this reverse, on the next day they took up a position in the more open ground, and offered battle again. By this time the Syracusan counterwork had almost passed the end of the Athenian wall, and if it were carried a few yards further, the siege of Syracuse would be brought to a standstill. Roused by the imminence of the crisis, Nicias determined to make one more effort to regain his mastery in the field, and led his troops to the attack. The main body of the hoplites were soon hotly engaged on both sides, and in the midst of the action Gylippus directed his cavalry and light-armed infantry to make a sudden charge on the Athenian left. This movement was executed with so much skill and resolution that the Athenians in that part of the line gave way, and drew after them the rest of their comrades, who broke their ranks, and fled for shelter behind the siege works.
The Syracusans lost no time in turning their victory to account. On the very same night their wall was extended some distance beyond the blockading line, and until this new barrier was overthrown, the investment of Syracuse had now become impossible.
Whichever way he looked, Nicias saw himself menaced with failure and defeat. He had sent twenty ships to intercept the Corinthian squadron on its voyage from Leucas; but the little fleet of rescue succeeded in avoiding the snare, and made its way into the port of Syracuse, thus adding twelve fresh vessels to the defending force. Gylippus himself was marching unhindered up and down the island, passing from city to city, and raising reinforcements of ships and men; and a second embassy had been despatched by the Syracusans, to carry the news of their victory to Corinth and Sparta, and ask for further help. Another ominous sign of coming events was the bustle and activity now visible in the dockyards of Syracuse and the waters of the Little Harbour; for the Syracusans had turned their attention seriously to their fleet, and thought of nothing less than attacking the Athenians on their own element.
These symptoms of renewed confidence and energy were observed by Nicias with growing disquiet. And if he turned his eyes to his own camp, he saw little to relieve his anxiety. For the predictions of Lamachus had been fulfilled to the letter. By his fatal policy of procrastination Nicias had frittered away the resources of the most splendid armament that ever set sail from Peiraeus. His soldiers were infected by the despondency of their leader, and many of them were stricken by the marsh-fever which haunts the unwholesome district of the Anapus. Above all the condition of the fleet showed the lamentable effect of long inaction and delay. All the supplies of the Athenians came to them by sea, and in order to keep their communications open, it was necessary to keep the whole of the fleet on constant duty. In consequence of this, the hulls of the triremes had become sodden with water, which made them leaky, and difficult to row. Moreover the crews, which were largely composed of foreign seamen, had grown restive and mutinous under the severe strain of hardships and privation, so different from the easy and lucrative service in the hope of which they had enlisted. Some took the first opportunity of deserting to the enemy, while others ran away to remote parts of Sicily; and there was no means of filling the places thus left vacant.
Such was the burden of care and apprehension which lay heavy on the feeble shoulders of the Athenian general. He was naturally a weak man, haunted by superstitious terrors, irresolute, easily cast down; and this infirmity of character was aggravated by a painful and incurable disease. There was no longer any question of laying siege to Syracuse: he himself was now besieged, and it was all he could do to maintain his position within his defences, and keep the sea open for the conveyance of supplies. In this desperate situation he determined to send a written despatch to Athens. We are led to suppose that this was an unusual proceeding, and that news from the seat of war was generally sent by word of mouth. The document is given at full length, with all its grievous confessions of incompetence and failure. After setting forth the facts of the case as stated above, Nicias insists that one of two things must be done: either the army now lying before Syracuse must be recalled to Athens, or the Athenians must send out a second army, equal in strength to the first, and a general to relieve him of his command.
At the conclusion of his despatch Nicias peevishly complains of the exacting temper of the Athenians, and their readiness to blame anyone but themselves if anything untoward occurred. Whatever may be the truth of the general charge, it was most ill-timed and ungrateful in his own case. Towards him, at least, the conduct of his fellow-citizens was marked by an excess of generosity, amounting to actual infatuation. Nothing is more remarkable than the unshaken confidence of the Athenians in their feeble general, after hearing this terrible indictment, drawn up by his own hand. They refused to accept his resignation, and passed a decree that large reinforcements should be sent to Sicily, with Demosthenes and Eurymedon as generals; and in the meantime they appointed Menander and Euthydemus, two officers already serving before Syracuse, to share with Nicias the burden of command. Before the winter was ended Eurymedon started with ten ships for Sicily, to announce that effectual help was coming; while Demosthenes was charged with the duty of enlisting troops and organizing a fleet.
Meanwhile new perils were gathering round the Athenians at home, which should have warned them to abandon their wild plans of conquest, and concentrate all their strength for their own defence. The Spartans had long been restrained by a scruple of conscience from an open declaration of war, wishing to avoid the guilt which is associated with the first act of aggression. Eighteen years before they had refused all offers of arbitration, and deliberately provoked an encounter with Athens, in direct violation of the Thirty Years' Truce, which provided for an amicable settlement of differences; and by so acting they had, as they believed, incurred the anger of heaven, and brought on themselves a long train of disasters. But now the position was reversed: for in the previous year the Athenians had made descents on the coasts of Laconia, and other districts of Peloponnesus; and they had repeatedly turned a deaf ear to the friendly overtures of the Spartans, who proposed to submit all disputed matters to a peaceful tribunal.
Thus relieved of their scruples, the Spartans prepared to renew the war in good earnest, and early in the following spring [Footnote: B.C. 413.] they summoned their allies to the Isthmus, and marched under Agis their king into Attica. After ravaging the plain, they encamped at Decelea, fourteen miles north of Athens, and here they established a fortified post, which was garrisoned by contingents of the Peloponnesian army, serving in regular order. Once more Alcibiades had cause to exult in the success of his malignant counsels, which had sent Gylippus to Syracuse, and had now planted this root of bitter mischief on the very soil of Attica.
While the allies were thus engaged at Decelea, a considerable body of troops had embarked at Taenarum and at Corinth, and sailed to take part in the defence of Syracuse. In Greece, all the old enemies of Athens were arming against her, and beyond the sea her prospects grew darker and darker every day. Yet nothing, it seemed, could break the spell of fatal delusion which rested on the doomed city. While Attica lay in the grip of the enemy, a fleet of sixty-five triremes, carrying a great military force, weighed anchor from Peiraeus, and steered its course, under the command of Demosthenes, for Sicily.
VIII
We must now return to Syracuse, where fortune was preparing a new blow for the ill-fated Athenian army. Gylippus came back from his mission at the beginning of spring, bringing with him the reinforcements which he had gathered from various parts of Sicily. At once resuming the offensive, he planned an attack on the forts recently erected by Nicias at Plemmyrium, and in order to divide the attention of the Athenians, he determined to make a simultaneous movement against them by sea and land. He himself took command of the army, and setting out at night, made his way round to the rear of the Athenian position at Plemmyrium. Meanwhile the Syracusan fleet lay ready in two divisions, one of which, consisting of thirty-five vessels, was moored in the docks, within the Great Harbour, while the other, to the number of forty-five, had its station in the Lesser Harbour. At the hour appointed by Gylippus, just as day was breaking, both squadrons got under weigh, and bore down upon Plemmyrium, from the opposite sides of Ortygia. Though taken by surprise, the Athenians put out in haste with sixty triremes, and a sea-fight ensued, in which the Syracusans for some time had the advantage. By this time Gylippus was at hand with his army, and by a sudden assault on the Athenian forts he made an easy capture of all three; for the greater part of the garrison had flocked down to the sea, to watch the progress of the action in the Great Harbour. Fortunately for these men, who had so grossly neglected their duty, the Athenian fleet had now gained a decisive victory, and they were thus enabled to make their escape by water, and cross over to the camp of Nicias, on the other side of the bay.
By the capture of Plemmyrium a great treasure fell into the hands of the Syracusans. The loss to the Athenians, in money, stores, and men, was serious enough; but further consequences ensued, which were nothing less than disastrous. The enemy now commanded both sides of the entrance to the Great Harbour, and not a ship-load of provisions could reach the Athenian camp without an encounter with the Syracusan triremes. Well might despondency and dismay take possession of the beleaguered army, cramped in their narrow quarters on the swampy flats of the Anapus.
All Sicily, with one or two exceptions, had now declared for Syracuse, and reinforcements came pouring in from every side. Gylippus was resolved, if possible, to destroy the armament of Nicias, before the fresh succours from Athens had time to arrive; and, as before, the attack was to be made simultaneously by sea and land. Since the loss of Plemmyrium, the Athenian fleet had been penned up in the confined space at the head of the Great Harbour. Outside of these narrow limits, the whole coast was in the hands of the enemy, and any Athenian trireme which ventured out into open water ran the risk of being driven on a hostile shore. Unless they chose to incur this great peril, the Athenians would have to fight in close order, with the long, tapering prows of their vessels exposed to collision.
The Syracusans skilfully availed themselves of the advantage thus offered. The impact of prow with prow, which had hitherto been regarded as a disgraceful evidence of bad seamanship, had now become the most effective method of attack; and in order to execute this simple manoeuvre without damage to their own ships, the Syracusans shortened the prows of their triremes, and strengthened them with heavy beams of timber, thus converting them into a broad and solid mass, which could be driven with crushing force against the slender beaks of the Athenian galleys.
When all was ready, Gylippus led out his troops, and assailed the Athenian wall which faced towards Syracuse, and at the same time the garrison stationed at Polichne left their quarters, and made another attack on the opposite side. The assault had already commenced, when the Syracusan fleet, which numbered eighty triremes, was seen advancing towards the inner shore of the bay, where the ships of Nicias lay moored; and the Athenian seamen, who had not expected to be called into action, hastened in some confusion to man their ships, seventy-five of which were presently engaged with the enemy. After a day passed in irregular and desultory fighting, the battle ended slightly in favour of the Syracusans. During the next day the Syracusans remained inactive, and Nicias employed the interval in repairing the ships which had suffered damage, and providing for the defence of his fleet. The Athenian naval station was protected by a row of piles, rammed into the bottom of the sea, forming a semi-circular breastwork, with an opening about two hundred feet wide, where the ships passed in and out. On either side of this entrance Nicias caused a merchant vessel to be moored, and each vessel was provided with an engine called a dolphin, a heavy mass of lead, suspended from the yard-arm, which could be dropped on the deck of any hostile trireme attempting to pass.
Early on the following morning the Syracusans resumed hostilities both by sea and land, and after several hours of desultory fighting, they drew off their fleet, and sailed back to their station under the walls of the city. The Athenians were well pleased by this sudden relief, and concluding that their work was done for the day, they disembarked at leisure, and began to prepare their midday meal. But before they had time to snatch a mouthful, the whole Syracusan fleet was seen advancing again from the opposite shore, and the hungry and weary Athenian crews were summoned on board to repel a second attack. This crafty manoeuvre was due to a suggestion of Ariston, the most skilful of the Corinthian seamen, by whose advice provisions had been brought down to the beach, so that the Syracusan crews were kept together, and ready to renew the action, after a brief interval for repose and refreshment.
For a little while the two fleets faced each other, without venturing to attack; then the Athenians, who were feverish with hunger and fatigue, could restrain themselves no longer, but with one consent they dashed their oars into the water, and with shouts of mutual encouragement charged down upon the enemy. The Syracusans kept a firm front, and opposing their massive prows to the rash assault, inflicted great damage on the Athenian triremes, many of which were completely wrecked by the shock of the collision. On every side the Athenians were hard beset; the light-armed troops posted on the decks of the Syracusan vessels, plied them with a shower of javelins, while the waters swarmed with a multitude of boats, manned by daring adventurers, who rowed boldly up to the sides of the Athenian triremes, broke the oars, and hurled darts through the port-holes at the rowers. After fighting for some time at a great disadvantage, with exhausted crews, and in a narrow space, where they had no room to manoeuvre, the Athenians were compelled to fall back, and sought refuge behind their palisade.
This important success raised the spirits of the Syracusans higher than ever. They had gained a decisive victory over the greatest naval power in Greece, sunk seven triremes, disabled many more, and slain or taken prisoners a large number of men. Flushed with pride and hope, they immediately began to prepare for a final attack, which was to end in the complete destruction of their enemies both by sea and land. But these high expectations received a sudden check; for on the day after the battle, [Footnote: Or possibly two days.] the watchers on the walls of Syracuse descried a great fleet on the northern horizon. Presently the regular beat of ten thousand oars could be distinctly heard; it grew louder and louder, and as the vanguard came into full view, the alarmed Syracusans recognized the truth. There was no mistaking the peculiar build and familiar ensigns of the renowned Athenian galleys. This could be no other than the fleet of Demosthenes, arrived just in time to save the shattered armament of Nicias, and once more turn the tide of war against Syracuse. A great multitude rushed to the battlements, and gazed with keen pangs of anxiety as the long line of triremes, seventy-three in number, swept past the walls of Ortygia, rounded the southern point, and crossing the Great Harbour, dropped anchor at the naval station of Nicias. If anyone not concerned in the struggle had been present, he might have admired the grand exhibition of military pomp and power, the perfect trim and condition of the triremes, the precision of the rowing, and the glittering ranks of the hoplites, javelin-men, archers, and slingers, who thronged the decks. But no such feeling could find room in the minds of the Syracusans. After their long trials and sufferings, on the very eve of their crowning triumph, a new host of enemies had sprung up against them, and all their toils were beginning anew.
IX
When Demosthenes arrived at Syracuse, the position of affairs was as follows: the blockading wall of the Athenians still extended in an unbroken line from the circular fort on Epipolae to the camp and naval station of Nicias at the head of the Great Harbour; but the Athenians were cut off from access to the northern slope of Epipolae by the Syracusan counterwall, which had been carried up the whole length of the plateau as far as the hill of Euryelus. Along the northern edge of the cliff the Syracusans had established three fortified camps, where the defenders of the counterwall had their quarters, and on the summit of Euryelus a fort had been erected, which held the key to the whole system of defence.
Demosthenes saw at once that, before any progress could be made with the siege of Syracuse, it was necessary to gain possession of the counterwall, and confine the Syracusans within the limits of their city. The sooner he made the attempt, the greater was his chance of success; for every day wasted would give new confidence to the enemy, and the condition in which he found the troops of Nicias was a visible warning against the fatal consequences of delay. An attack made on the cross-wall from its southern side ended in total failure; his siege-engines were burnt, and the storming-parties repulsed at every point. The only course which remained was to march round to the north-western extremity of the plateau, carry the fort of Euryelus, and assail the Syracusans within their own lines. After consulting with his colleagues, Demosthenes determined to try the hazardous method of a night-attack, hoping thus to take the garrison on Euryelus by surprise. He himself, with Eurymedon and Menander, took the command, and the whole Athenian army was engaged in the adventure, except those who remained behind with Nicias to guard the camp. On a moonlight night in August, at the hour of the first watch, the march began. Moving cautiously up the valley of the Anapus, they turned the northern end of the hill, and reached the path by which Lamachus had ascended in the spring of the previous year. At first all seemed to promise success to the Athenians unobserved by the enemy, Demosthenes ascended the hill, stormed the fort, and, drove the garrison back on the three fortified camps which flanked the Syracusan counterwall on its northern side. The fugitives raised the alarm, and the call was promptly answered by a picked troop of six hundred hoplites, who were stationed nearest to the point of danger. These men made a gallant stand, but they were overpowered by superior numbers, and thrust back on the main body of the Syracusans, who were now advancing under Gylippus to the rescue. They in their turn were forced to give ground before the impetuous charge of Demosthenes, and a general panic seemed about to spread through the whole Syracusan army. Already the Athenians had begun to throw down the battlements of the counterwall, and if they were allowed to proceed, Syracuse would once more be exposed to imminent danger.
But now occurred one of those sudden turns of fortune which were so common in Greek warfare. As the soldiers of the Athenian van rushed forward too hotly, wishing to complete the rout of the enemy they fell into disorder, and in this condition they were confronted by a stout little troop of Boeotian hoplites, who had found their way to Syracuse earlier in the summer. This unexpected resistance checked the furious onset of the Athenians, and the Boeotians, pursuing their advantage, charged in solid phalanx and put them to flight. Once more the tide of battle had turned against Athens. Restored to confidence by the steady valour of their allies, the Syracusans closed their ranks, and advanced in dense masses up the hill. A scene of indescribable horror and confusion ensued, so that no one was afterwards able to give a clear account of what had happened. On the narrow neck of land which forms the western end of Epipolae two great armies were rushing to the encounter. On one side was the main body of the Athenians, still ignorant of the defeat of their comrades, and hurrying forward to share in the victory. On the other side was the whole host of Syracuse, advancing with deafening shouts to meet them; and in the middle were the men of Demosthenes, flying in headlong rout before the conquering Boeotians. In the uncertain light, the fugitives were at first mistaken for enemies, and many of them perished miserably by the spears of their own countrymen. On came the Syracusans, bearing down all before them; but the Athenians, as they strove to escape, were flung back upon the enemy by fresh bodies of their own men, who were still thronging by thousands up the northern path of Euryelus. All semblance of order was now lost in the Athenian army, which was broken up into detached parties, some flying, some advancing, and shouting their watchword to all whom they met, so as to learn whether they had to do with friend or foe. But the Syracusans soon learnt the watchword, which thus became a means of betraying the Athenians to their own destruction. To add to the confusion, the Dorian allies of Athens raised a paean, or war-song, so similar to that of the Syracusans, that the Athenians fled at their approach supposing them to be enemies. The grand army of Demosthenes, which had set out with such high hopes, was now no better than a mob of wild and desperate men, friend fighting against friend, and citizen against citizen. At length the whole multitude turned and fled, each man seeking to save himself as best he could. Some, hard pressed by the enemy, flung themselves from the cliffs, and were dashed to pieces on the rocks below; others succeeded in reaching the plain, and found their way back to the camp of Nicias; while not a few lost their way, and wandered about the country until the following day, when they were hunted down and slain by the Syracusan horseman.
Demosthenes had done all that a man could to recover the ground lost by Nicias, and resume the aggressive against Syracuse. His well-laid scheme had ended disastrously, and only one course remained, consistent with public duty and common sense. To waste the blood and treasure of Athens in Sicily any longer would be suicidal folly. The Athenians at home were in a state of siege, and needed every man and every ship for the defence of their own territory, and the maintenance of their empire in Greece. Sickness and despondency had already wrought dire havoc among the troops encamped before Syracuse. To remain was utter ruin, both to themselves and their fellow-citizens. The sea was still open, and the new armament, with what remained of the old, would be strong enough to secure their retreat. Let them embark without delay, turn their backs on the fatal shores of Sicily, and hoist sail for home.
These arguments were urged by Demosthenes with unanswerable force at a private meeting of the generals which was held immediately after the defeat on Epipolae But unhappily for all those most nearly concerned in the debate, the influence of Nicias was still supreme in the Athenian camp; and to spur that gloomy trifler into decisive action was beyond the power even of Demosthenes. Nicias knew that, if he gave the word to retreat, in a few weeks he would have to stand before the bar of his countrymen, and give an account of the great trust which he had betrayed. It would be better, he thought, to perish under the walls of Syracuse, than to brave that stern tribunal, and read his doom on those angry, accusing faces. And apart from these selfish terrors, he was still in communication with his partisans in Syracuse, who encouraged him to wait for a favourable turn of affairs. Thus fettered to the spot both by his hopes and his fears, he obstinately refused to move.
While Demosthenes argued, and Nicias demurred, Gylippus had not been idle. A day or two after the battle, he once more left Syracuse, and traversed the whole length of the island, collecting troops on his way. At Selinus he was joined by the Peloponnesian and Boeotian soldiers who had sailed from Taenarum early in the spring, and had just reached that port, after a long and adventurous voyage. With this welcome addition to his forces, and thousands more who had answered his call from all parts of Sicily, he returned to Syracuse, and prepared to put out all his strength in a general assault on the army and fleet of Athens.
The Athenians had not yet abandoned their lines on the southern side of Epipolae, and from this position they watched the arrival of the new army raised by Gylippus, as it defiled down the slope, and poured through the gates of Syracuse to swell the ranks of their enemies. In their own camp the state of things was growing worse every day, and even Nicias now became convinced that to remain any longer would be sheer madness. With the hearty concurrence of his colleagues, he gave his vote for immediate departure, and the order was secretly passed round the camp that every man should hold himself in readiness to go on board, as soon as the signal was given. It was necessary to proceed with caution, for if the enemy were informed of their purpose, they would have to fight their way through the Syracusan fleet. The preparations were accordingly made with as little noise as possible and in a short time all was ready for the voyage. Night sank down on the Athenian camp, but among all that vast multitude no one thought of sleep, for the whole host was waiting in breathless eagerness for the signal to embark. Over the eastern waters the full moon was shining, making a long path of silver and pointing the way to home. But suddenly a dark shadow touched the outer rim of that gleaming disk, and crept stealthily on, until the whole face of the moon was veiled in darkness. A whisper, a murmur, a shudder went round among those anxious watchers, and before the shadow had passed away, ten thousand tongues were eagerly discussing the meaning of that mysterious portent. Most were agreed that it was a warning from heaven, forbidding their departure until the angry powers had been appeased by sacrifice and prayer. In the mind of Nicias, enslaved by the grossest superstition, there was no room for doubt. He was surrounded by prophets, whose advice he sought on every occasion, and guided by them he proclaimed that for thrice nine days, the time required for a complete circuit of the moon, there could be no talk of departing.
But the Athenians were soon engaged in a sterner task than the vain rites of propitiation and penitential observance. The news of their intended retreat, and its untoward interruption, so raised the spirits of the Syracusans, that they resolved to risk another sea-fight, and after some days spent in training their crews, they sailed out with seventy-six ships, and offered battle, and Gylippus at the same time attacked the Athenian lines by land. The Athenians succeeded in repulsing the assault on their walls, but in the encounter between the fleets, though they out-numbered the enemy by ten ships, they suffered a decisive defeat. Eurymedon was slain, and eighteen vessels fell into the hands of the Syracusans, who put all the crews to the sword.
The pride and ambition of the Syracusans now knew no bounds. Relieved from all fear for the safety of their city they began to take a loftier view of the struggle, and to grasp the full compass and grandeur of the issues involved. It was no mere feud between two rival states, but a great national conflict, which was to end in the downfall of a wide-spread usurpation, and the deliverance of a hundred cities from bondage. The whole naval and military forces of Athens lay crippled and helpless within their grasp; they would shatter to pieces the instrument of tyranny, and win an immortal name as the liberators of all Greece. Their first care was to prevent the escape of the Athenians, and for this purpose they began to close the mouth of the Great Harbour by a line of triremes and vessels of burden, anchored broadside across the channel.
X
The Athenians were thus caught in a trap, and their only hope of saving themselves was to force the barrier of the Great Harbour, and escape by sea, or, failing that, to make their way by land to some friendly city. As a last sad confession of defeat, they withdrew the garrison from their walls on Epipolae, and reduced the dimensions of their camp, confining it to a narrow space of the coast, where the fleet lay moored. Every vessel which could be kept afloat was prepared for action, and when the whole force was mustered, out of two great armaments only a hundred and ten were found fit for service. A small body of troops was left to guard the camp, and all the rest, except such as were totally disabled by sickness, were distributed as fighting-men among the ships. For the countrymen of Phormio had now reverted to the primitive conditions of naval warfare, in which the trireme was a mere vehicle for carrying troops, and not, as in the days of that great captain, the chief weapon of offence. Every foot of standing-room on the decks was occupied by a crowd of hoplites, javelin-men, archers, and slingers, and on their prowess the issue of the battle depended. To lay their vessels aboard the enemy with as little delay as possible, and leave the rest to the soldiers, was now the chief object of the Athenian captains; and the better to effect. this, men were stationed on the prows, armed with grappling-irons, to hold the attacking trireme fast, and prevent her from backing away after the first shock of collision.
With hearts full of sad foreboding, the great multitude mustered on the beach, and waited for the word to embark. On a rising ground, fronting the camp, the generals; stood grouped in earnest consultation; then every voice was hushed, as Nicias came forward, and beckoned with his hand, commanding silence. The form of the general was bowed with years, and his face lined with pain and sickness, but in his eye there was an unwonted fire, and his tones rang clear and full, as he reminded his hearers of the great cause for which they were to fight, and the mighty interests which hung in the balance that day. "Men of Athens," he said, "and you, our faithful allies, your lives, your liberty, and the future of all who are dear to you, are in your own hands. If you would ever see home again, you must resolve to conquer fortune, even against her will, like seasoned veterans, inured to the perils and vicissitudes of war. Hitherto we have generally got the better of the enemy on land and we are now going to fight a land battle on the sea. As soon as you come within reach of a Syracusan vessel, fling your grappling-irons, and hold her fast, until not a man is left alive to defend her deck. This will be the task of the soldiers, whom I need not tell to do their duty. And you, seamen of the Athenian fleet, be not dismayed because we have forsaken our former tactics, but trust to the strong arms of the fighting men. Remember, those of you who are not of Attic descent, how long you have enjoyed the high privileges of Athenian citizens, and the honour reflected on you by your connection with Athens.
"My last word shall be spoken to you, fellow-citizens, Athenians born and bred. You know what you have to expect from the Syracusans, if this last struggle should end in defeat. But consider further what will be the fate of your friends at home. Their docks are empty, their walls are stripped of defenders, and if you fail them, Syracuse will unite with their old enemies, and bear them down. Here, where we stand, are the army, the fleet, the city, and the great name of Athens; go, then, and fight as you never fought before, for never yet had soldier such a prize to win, and such a cause to defend."
When Nicias had concluded his stirring appeal, the embarkation of the troops began. As the fatal moment drew nearer and nearer, the anxiety and distress of the Athenian general became unbearable. Feeling that he had not said enough, he hurried to and fro, addressing each captain with an agony of supplication, and imploring him by every sacred name,—his wife, his children, his country, and his country's gods,—to play a man's part, forgetting all thoughts of self. Having exhausted every topic of entreaty, and seen the last man on board, he turned away, still unsatisfied, and addressed himself to the task of drawing up the troops left under his command for the defence of the camp. These were disposed along the shore in as long a line as possible, that they might encourage those fighting on the sea by their presence, and lend prompt help in case of need. Behind them, every point of outlook was held by a throng of anxious spectators,—the sick, the maimed, and the wounded,—every man who had strength to crawl from his bed, and watch that last desperate struggle for liberty and home.
And now the Athenian admirals, Demosthenes, Menander, and Euthydemus, raised the signal, and the great fight began. The foremost ships succeeded in reaching the mouth of the Great Harbour, and began to break through the barrier, when the whole Syracusan fleet closed in upon them on all sides, and forced them back Then the battle became general, and soon the two fleets were scattered over the whole surface of the bay in little groups, and each group engaged in a wild and furious melee. There was no attempt to manoeuvre, but ship encountered ship; as accident brought them together, and advanced to the attack, under a shower of javelins and arrows. Then followed the dull crash of collision, and the fierce rush of the fighting-men, as they endeavoured to board. Here and there could be seen knots of three or four triremes, locked together with shattered hulls and broken oars, while the soldiers on the decks strove for the mastery. Nearly two hundred triremes, and some forty thousand men, were engaged in that tumultuous fight; and the thunder of the oars, the crash of colliding triremes, and the yells of the assailants, raised an uproar so tremendous that it was impossible to hear the voice of command. All order and method was lost, yet still they fought on, the Syracusans with a savage thirst for vengeance, the Athenians with the fury of despair; and for a long time the issue remained doubtful.
All this scene of havoc and carnage was witnessed by the whole population of Syracuse, who thronged the walls, or stood in arms along the shore, and followed every incident with breathless interest. But above all among the Athenians left behind in the camp excitement was strained to the point of anguish. Here the view was more restricted, and each group of spectators had its attention fixed on some one of the many encounters which were raging in different parts of the bay. Some who saw their friends conquering, shouted with joy and triumph; some shrieked in terror, as an Athenian ship went down; and others, when the combat long wavered, rocked their bodies to and fro in an agony of suspense. Thus at the same moment every shifting turn of battle, victory and defeat, panic and rally, flight and pursuit, was mirrored on those pale faces, and echoed in a thousand mingled cries.
But at length these discordant voices were united in one general note of horror, as the whole Athenian fleet, or all that was left of it, was seen making in headlong rout for the upper end of the bay, with the victorious Syracusans pressing hard behind. Then most of those who were watching from the shore were seized with uncontrollable terror, and sought to hide themselves in holes and corners of the camp; while a few, who were more stout-hearted, waded into the water, to save the ships, or rushed to defend the walls on the land side. But for the present the Syracusans were contented with their victory, and after chasing the fugitive triremes as far as their defences, they wheeled and rowed back across the Great Harbour, through floating corpses, and the wrecks of more than seventy vessels. On their arrival at Syracuse they were hailed with such a burst of enthusiasm as had rarely been witnessed in any Greek city. The victory, indeed, had been dearly bought, but it was well worth the cost, and the power of Athens had sustained a blow from which it could never recover. But among all the thronging hosts of Syracuse, who now gave themselves up to revel and rejoicing, there was one man at least who knew that even now the danger was not yet past. Forty thousand Athenian soldiers were still encamped within sight of the walls, and if they were allowed to escape, they might establish themselves in some friendly city, and begin the war again. All this was strongly felt by Hermocrates, and he lost no time in imparting his cares and anxieties to the responsible leaders. The Athenians, he urged, would be almost certain to decamp during the night: let a strong force be sent out at once from Syracuse, to occupy all the roads, and cut off their retreat. The advice was good, but in the present temper of the army it was felt to be impracticable. The whole city had become a scene of riot and wassail, and if the order were given to march, it was but too evident that not a man would obey. Baffled in this direction, the keen-witted Syracusan hit upon another plan, which he at once proceeded to carry into effect.
Hermocrates was not mistaken in his conjecture. The beaten and dispirited Athenians had now but one thought,—to break up their camp with all despatch, and make their escape by land. They had still sixty triremes left, and Demosthenes proposed to make one more attempt to force the entrance of the Great Harbour; but when his suggestion was made known to the crews, they broke into open mutiny, and flatly refused to go on board. The generals were therefore compelled to adopt the only alternative, and it was resolved to set out on that very night. But Fortune had not yet exhausted her malice against the hapless Athenians. The order to strike camp had been issued, and the soldiers were busy preparing for the march, when a party of horsemen rode up to the Athenian outposts, and hailing the sentinels, said that they had a message to Nicias from his friends in Syracuse. "Tell him," said the spokesman of the party, "That he must not attempt to stir to-night, for all the roads are held by strong detachments of the Syracusans. Let him wait until he has organised his forces, for a hasty and disordered flight is sure to end in disaster."
The message, of course, came from Hermocrates, who had contrived this trick to delay the departure of the Athenians, until time had been gained to occupy the passes on their route. That Nicias should have fallen into the snare is not surprising, but it is less easy to explain how Demosthenes and the other generals came to be deceived by so transparent a fraud. Yet such was in fact the case; the insidious hint was accepted as a piece of friendly advice, and the march was postponed. For a whole day and night the Athenians still lingered on the spot, and thus gave ample time for their enemies to draw the net round them, and block every avenue to safety.
On the third day after the battle, the order was given to march. As the great army formed into column, the full horror of their situation came home to every heart. This, then, was the end of those grand dreams of conquest with which they had sailed to Sicily two years before! On the heights of Epipolae their walls and their fort was still standing, a monument of failure and defeat. Each familiar landmark reminded them of some fallen comrade, or some disastrous incident in the siege. If they glanced towards the Great Harbour, they could see the victorious Syracusans towing off the shattered hull of an Athenian trireme, the last sad remnant of two great armaments. If they turned their thoughts towards Athens and home, they found no comfort there; for their beloved city was beset with enemies, and in themselves, beaten and broken as they were, lay her chief hope of salvation. The past was all black with calamity, and the future loomed terrible before them, threatening captivity and death; and the present, in that last hour of parting, was full of such sights and sounds of woe as might have stirred pity even in the breasts of their enemies. Around them, the camp was strewn with the unburied corpses of brothers, comrades and sons, and thousands more were tossing on the waves, or flung up on the shores of the bay. And while the neglect of that sacred duty pressed heavily on their conscience, still more harrowing were the cries of the sick and wounded, who clung round their knees, imploring to be taken with them, and when the army began to move followed with tottering steps, until they sank down exhausted, calling down the curse of heaven on the retreating host. Such was the anguish of that moment, that it seemed as if the whole population of some great city had been driven into exile, and was seeking a new home in a distant soil.
In this dire extremity, when the strongest spirits were crushed with misery, one voice was heard, which still spoke of hope. It was the voice of Nicias, who, when all others faltered, rose to a pitch of heroism which he had never shown before. Bowed as he was with care, and wasted by disease, he braced himself with more than human energy, and moved with light step from rank to rank, exhorting that stricken multitude in words of power. "Comrades," he said, "even now there is no need to despair. Others have been saved before now from calamities yet deeper than ours. You see in what state I am, cast down from the summit of human prosperity, and condemned, in my age and weakness, to share the hardships of the humblest soldier among you,—I, who was ever constant in the service of the gods, and punctual in the performance of every social duty. Yet have I not lost faith in the righteousness of heaven, nor should you give up all for lost, if by any act of yours you have fallen under the scourge of divine vengeance. There is mercy, as well as justice, among the gods, and we, in sinking thus low, have become the proper objects of their compassion. Think too what firm ground of confidence we have, in the shields and spears of so many thousand warriors. There is no power in Sicily which can resist us, either to prevent our coming or to shorten our stay. A few days march will bring us to the country of the friendly Sicels, who have already received notice of our approach. Once there, we can defy all attack, and look forward to the time when we shall see our homes again, and raise up the fallen power of Athens."
These and similar exhortations were repeated by Nicias again and again, as the army moved slowly forwards up the valley of the Anapus, keeping a westerly direction, towards the interior of the island. The troops were formed in a hollow oblong, with the baggage animals and camp-followers in the middle, and advanced in two divisions, Nicias leading the van, and Demosthenes bringing up the rear. The vigilance and activity of Nicias never relaxed for a moment. Careless of his many infirmities and exalted rank, he passed incessantly up and down the column, chiding the stragglers, and attending to the even trim of his lines. On reaching the ford of the Anapus, they put to flight a detachment of the enemy which was stationed there to oppose their passage, and crossing the river, continued their march. But now the real difficulties of the retreat began to appear. The Syracusans had no intention of hazarding a pitched battle, but their horsemen and light infantry hung upon the flanks of the Athenian army, making sudden charges, and keeping up a constant discharge of javelins.
At nightfall the Athenians encamped under the shelter of a hill, some five miles from their starting-point, and setting out at daybreak on the following day, they pushed on with pain and difficulty, harassed at every step by the galling attacks of the Syracusan troops. [Footnote: Thucydides, with characteristic brevity, leaves this to be inferred from the slowness of their progress.] A march of two miles and a half brought them to a village, situated on a level plain, and here they halted, wishing to supply themselves with food, and replenish their water-vessels; for the country which they had now to traverse was a desert, many miles in extent. Directly in their line of route there is a narrow pass, when the road, on entering the hill country, drops sheer down on either side into a deep ravine, and if they could once cross this dangerous point they would be within reach of their allies, the Sicels. But it was too late to proceed further that day, and while they lay encamped in the village, the Syracusans hurried on in advance, and blocked the pass by building a wall across the road. When the Athenians resumed their march next morning, they were fiercely assailed by the enemy's light horse and foot, who disputed every inch of ground, and at last compelled them to fall back on the village where they had encamped the night before. Provisions were now growing scanty, and every attempt to leave their lines in search of plunder and forage was baffled by the Syracusan horse.
On the fourth day they broke up their camp early, and by incessant fighting succeeded in forcing their way as far as the pass. But all further advance was prevented by the wall, and the dense masses of infantry posted behind it. In vain the Athenians flung themselves again and again upon the barrier. The troops stationed on the cliffs above assailed them with a shower of missiles, and the solid phalanx of hoplites repulsed every assault. Convinced at last that they were wasting their strength to no purpose, they desisted, and retiring from the wall halted at some distance for a brief interval of repose. During this pause a storm of rain and thunder broke over their heads; and to the weary and disheartened Athenians it seemed that the very elements were in league with the enemy against them. But they had little time to indulge in these melancholy reflections; for while they were resting, Gylippus stole round to their rear, and prepared to cut off their retreat by building a second wall across the pass. The news of this imminent peril roused the Athenians from their stupor, and they marched back with all speed along the road by which they had come. A picked body of troops, sent on in advance, scattered the soldiers of Gylippus, and the whole army then emerged from that death-trap, and encamped for the night in the open plain.
The next day was spent in a last desperate effort to reach the hill country. But being now on level ground, they were exposed on all sides to the attacks of the Syracusan horse, who charged them incessantly, and slew their men by hundreds, with hardly any loss to themselves. The hopeless struggle continued until evening, and when the enemy drew off, they left the Athenians not a mile from the place where they had passed the previous night.
The original plan of the Athenian generals had been to penetrate the highlands of Sicily to the west of Syracuse, and then strike across country, until they reached the southern coast, in the direction of Gela or Camarina. [Footnote: I have followed Holm, as cited in Classen's Appendix (Third Edition, 1908).] But after two days' fighting they had utterly failed to force an entrance into the mountains. Many of their soldiers were wounded, the whole army was weakened by famine, and a third attempt, made in such conditions, must inevitably end in utter disaster. They resolved therefore to change their route, and march southwards along the level coast country, until they could reach the interior by following one of the numerous glens which pierce the hills on this side of Sicily. Having come to this decision, they caused a great number of fires to be lighted, and then gave the order for an immediate start, hoping by this means to steal a march on the enemy. This sudden flight through the darkness, in a hostile country, with unknown terrors around them, caused something like a panic in the Athenian army.
Nicias, however, who was still leading the van, contrived to keep his men together, and made good progress; but the division under Demosthenes fell into great disorder, and was left far behind. By daybreak, both divisions [Footnote: See note, p. 242.] were within sight of the sea, and entering the road which runs north and south between Syracuse and Helorus, they continued their march towards the river Cacyparis. Here they intended to turn off into the interior, with the assistance of the Sicels, whom they expected to meet at the river. But when they reached the ford of the Cacyparis, they found, instead of the Sicels, a contingent of Syracusan troops, who were raising a wall and palisade to block the passage. This obstruction was overcome without much difficulty, and the whole Athenian army crossed the river in safety. But the presence of the enemy on this side of Syracuse was sufficient to deter them from taking the inland route by the valley of the Cacyparis, and following the advice of their guides, they kept the main road, and pressed on towards the south.
We must now return for a moment to the Syracusans under Gylippus, who remained in their camp all night, not far from the pass which they had so successfully defended. When they found in the morning that the Athenians had departed, they were loud in their anger against Gylippus, thinking that he had purposely suffered them to escape. The tracks of so many thousands left no room for doubt as to the direction which the fugitives had taken, and full of rage at the supposed treachery of their leader, the Syracusans set out at once in hot pursuit. About noon, on the sixth day of the retreat, they overtook the division of Demosthenes, which had again lagged behind, and was marching slowly and in disorder separated from the other half of the army by a distance of six miles. Deprived of all hope of succour from his colleague, and hemmed in on all sides by implacable enemies, Demosthenes called a halt, and prepared to make his last stand. But his men, who from the first had held the post of honour and danger, were fearfully reduced in numbers, faint with famine, and exhausted by their long march. Driven to and fro by the incessant charges of the Syracusan cavalry, they could make no effective resistance, and at last they huddled pell-mell into a walled enclosure, planted with olive-trees, and skirted on either side by a road. They were now at the mercy of the Syracusans. who surrounded the enclosure, and plied them with javelins, stones, and arrows. After this butchery had continued for many hours, and the survivors were brought to extremity by wounds, hunger, and thirst, Gylippus sent a herald, who was the bearer of a remarkable message. "Let those of you," he said, "who are natives of the islands subject to Athens, come over to us, and you shall be free men." The offer was addressed to the Greeks from the maritime cities of the Aegaean, who might be supposed to be serving under compulsion, and it speaks volumes for the loyalty and attachment of these men to Athens that most of them refused to accept their freedom from the hands of her enemies. At length, however, the whole army of Demosthenes, which had now dwindled to six thousand men, was induced to surrender, on condition that none of them should suffer death by violence, by bonds, or by starvation. At the command of their captors they gave up the money which they had with them, and the amount collected was so considerable that it filled the hollows of four shields. When the capitulation was concluded, Demosthenes, who had refused to make any terms for himself, drew his sword, and attempted to take his own life; [Footnote: This interesting fact is recorded by Plutarch and Pausanias, who copied it from the contemporary Syracusan historian, Philistus.] but he was prevented from effecting his purpose, and compelled to take his place in the mournful procession which was now conducted by a strong guard along the road to Syracuse.
Meanwhile the vanguard under Nicias, in total ignorance of the fate which had befallen their comrades, marched steadily forwards, and crossing the river Erineus, encamped for the night on a neighbouring hill. Here they were found next morning by Gylippus and the Syracusans, who informed them that Demosthenes and his men had surrendered, and called upon them to do the same. Doubting their good faith, Nicias obtained a truce, while he sent a horseman to ascertain the facts; and even when he had learnt the truth from his messenger, he still tried to parley, offering, in the name of the Athenian state, to defray the whole cost of the war, and to give hostages for payment, at the rate of an Athenian citizen for each talent, on condition that he and his men were allowed to go. But the Syracusans were in no mood to listen to such proposals, even if Nicias had spoken with full authority from Athens. Bare life they would grant, but no more, and as the Athenians refused to yield on these terms, they closed in upon them, and the cruel, hopeless struggle began again, and continued until evening. The wretched Athenians lay down supperless to snatch a few hours of rest, intending, when all was quiet, to steal away under cover of darkness. But when they rose at dead of night, and prepared to march, a shout from the Syracusan camp warned them that the enemy were on the alert, and they were compelled to return to their comfortless bivouac. Three hundred, however, persisted in their intention, and forcing their way through the Syracusan lines, gained for themselves a brief respite from capture.
A whole week had now elapsed since the ill-fated army left its quarters on the shores of the Great Harbour, and a few thousand starving and weary men were all that remained of that great host. At dawn on the eighth day Nicias gave the word to march, and they pressed on eagerly towards the Assinarus, a stream of some size, with high and precipitous banks, not more than two miles distant from their last halting-place. They had still some faint hope of making good their escape, if they could but cross the river. So they fought their way onwards, through the swarming ranks of the Syracusans, who closed them in on all sides, and thrust them together into one solid mass. There was life, there was freedom a little way beyond,—or, if that hope proved futile, at any rate there was water; and every fibre in their bodies ached and burned with intolerable thirst. They reached the river; both banks were already lined by the Syracusan horse, who had ridden on before, and stood guarding the ford: but there was no stopping the wild rush of that maddened, desperate multitude. Down the steep bank they plunged, trampling on one another, and flung themselves open-mouthed upon the stream, with one thought, one wish, overpowering every other impulse,—to drink, and then to die. Some fell upon the spears of their comrades, and perished, others slipped on the floating baggage, lost their foothold, and were swept away by the flood. Yet still they poured on, by hundreds and by thousands, drawn by the same longing, and thrust downwards by the weight of those behind, until the whole riverbed was filled with a huddled, surging mob of furious men, who drank, and still drank, or fought with one another to reach the water. All this time an iron storm of missiles rained down upon them from the thronging hosts of their enemies on the banks above, while some, in the midst of their draught, were pierced by the spears of the Peloponnesians, who followed them into the river, and slew them at close quarters. The water grew red with blood, and foul from the trampling of so many feet, but the thirsty multitude still came crowding in, and drank with avidity of the polluted stream.
For a long time the slaughter raged unchecked, and the river-bed was choked with heaps of slain. A few, who escaped from the river, were pursued and cut down by the Syracusan horse. Nicias had held out until the last moment; but when he perceived that all was lost, his men being powerless either to fight or fly, he made his way to Gylippus, and implored him to stop the useless carnage. "I surrender myself," he said, "to you and the Spartans. Do with me as you please, but put an end to this butchery of defenceless men." Gylippus gave the necessary order, and the word was passed round to kill no more, but take captive those who survived. The order was obeyed, though slowly and with reluctance, and the work of capture began. But few of those taken in the river ever found their way into the public gaol, where Demosthenes was now lying, with the six thousand who had surrendered on the day before. For, as there had been no regular capitulation, large numbers of the prisoners were secretly conveyed away by the Syracusans, who afterwards sold them into slavery for their own profit. As for the three hundred who had broken out of camp on the previous night, they were presently brought in by a party of cavalry despatched in pursuit.
When the first transports of joy and triumph were over, an assembly was called to decide on the fate of the two Athenian generals, and of those state prisoners, some seven thousand in number, who were the sole visible remnant of two great armies. Then arose a strange conflict of motives. The first who put forward his claims was Gylippus, to whose genius and energy the victorious issue of the struggle was mainly due. As a reward for his services, he asked that Nicias and Demosthenes should be left to his disposal, for he wished to have the honour of carrying home with him these famous captains, one the greatest friend, the other the greatest enemy of Sparta. But the general voice of the assembly was strongly against him. Nothing but the blood of the two principal offenders could satisfy the vengeance of the Syracusans, and those who had intrigued with Nicias were anxious to put him out of the way, in fear lest he should betray them. Moreover the Corinthian allies of Syracuse, who for some reason had a special grudge against Nicias, demanded his immediate execution. In vain Hermocrates pleaded the cause of mercy, [Footnote: Plutarch,Nicias, c. 28.] and urged his fellow-citizens to make a generous use of their victory. Sentence of death was passed, and these two eminent Athenians, so different in character and achievement, were united in their end.
Far worse was the doom pronounced on the six thousand men of Demosthenes, and the thousand more who were brought to Syracuse after the massacre at the Assinarus. They were condemned to confinement in the stone quarries, deep pits surrounded by high walls of cliff, under the south-eastern edge of Epipolae. Penned together in these roofless dungeons, they were exposed to the fierce heat of the sun by day, and to the bitter cold of the autumn nights, and having scarcely room to move, they were unable to preserve common decency, or common cleanliness. Many died of their wounds, or of the diseases engendered by exposure, and their bodies were left unburied, a sight of horror and a source of infection to the survivors. To these frightful miseries were added a perpetual burning thirst, and the lingering torture of slow starvation, for each man received as his daily allowance a poor half pint of water, and a mere pittance of food, just enough to avoid breaking the letter of the conditions which Demosthenes had made for his troops. In this state they were left without relief for ten long weeks; then all except the Athenians themselves, and their allies from the Greek cities of Sicily and Italy, were taken out and sold as slaves.
Such was the end of the Sicilian Expedition, which ultimately decided the issue of the Peloponnesian War. Forsaking the wise counsels of their greatest statesman, and carried away by the mad sophistry of Alcibiades, the Athenians had committed themselves, heart and soul, to a wild game of hazard, in which they had little to win, and everything to lose. By this act of desperate folly they brought on themselves an overwhelming disaster, from which it was impossible for them wholly to recover. With wonderful vitality they rallied from the blow, and struggled on for nine years more, against the whole power of Peloponnesus, and their own revolted allies, backed by the influence and the gold of Persia. They gained great victories, and under prudent leaders they might still have been saved from the worst consequences of their defeat in Sicily. But at every favourable crisis they wantonly flung away the advantage they had gained, and abandoned themselves to blind guides, who led them further and further on the road to ruin.
The history of Thucydides ends abruptly in the twenty-first year of the war, and for an account of the closing scenes we have to go to the pages of Xenophon. It will be convenient, therefore, to bring our narrative to a close at the point which we have reached, for any attempt even to sketch the events of this confused and troubled period would carry us far beyond the limits of the present volume. And so for the present we take leave of the Athenians, in the hour of their decline. Their light is burning dim, and yet darker days are awaiting them in the future. But they are still great and illustrious, as the chief guardians of those spiritual treasures which are our choicest heritage from the past.