Alcibiades

Scene I: Cutting through the Aegean under a cloudless sky, Alcibiades stands at the bow of a red-eyed trireme, arms outspread, flamboyantly clothed in Persian attire. 

Kūfa, an emissary of the Hellespontine satrap, anxiously scans for unfriendly ships from the stern. Gulls cry as the Phrygian coast fills the horizon.

Alc: Those men say they will die happy,

Content in having, for a span, lived in full.

How noble! To leave what is their unknown.

Yes, the world they had has passed and is gone.

So their farewells are in truth a relief:

A mere desertion of another’s nation,

For the years make us all foreigners:

You see, that is their solace and my grief.

These fools are only as wise as their lies,

They cannot grasp what moves underneath me:

The unseen tides that would remain untamed,

Were it not for boldness and ambition’s sakes!

Kūf: And would you, fleeing from where you fled, tame the tides? The untended flame soon turns to ash; one overfed calls everything ahead its food.

Alc: And yet, my friend, the oak that does not bend

Against the gales will meet a bitter end.

Some things cannot be mounted, only ridden,

For they are amply slaked when gently bidden:

Dances, drink, laws, lovers, crowds, and cats.

Do not forget Minyas and his daughters who,

Refusing the vine, were turned into bats!

Even the heavens shift courses in the night,

So constellations, borne from deathless light,

Are no more still than man and his miseries,

No more constant than cities or histories:

Etched and rewritten, effaced and revealed.

Kūf: Soaring bats find their perches.You swipe the storms, but wisdom soon escapes your hold. Yet you run so ardently and with such ease that no grounding will come. No, and surely not from a fool like me, but perhaps you do not need earth to tread upon. 

Alc: My Athens is clay on a potter’s wheel, 

Spun by grubby fingers, coarse and displeased. 

The cloying mobs hold no one in esteem. 

Sparta is dull; the people are dumb. 

All Greece must crumble before I return,

For I do not claim this place under protest. 

A new shore always welcomes my feet,

And no mortal’s machinations will move me. 

Scene II: King Agis II and Queen Timaea are seated in a private chamber. Both have been drinking. The room has an understated regality.

Timaea is tense, catching glances of the king’s furrowed brow, as he closely scrutinizes his son’s features which are not, admittedly, anything like his own.

A light drizzle and a low thunder permeates the hall, as marching hoplites can be heard.

Agi: No Spartan should bear a trace of him, much less your flesh. A soft and shiftless snake slithers to envenomate, yet who would invite his bite? 

Tim: It’s not just that he is hard; this is common. It’s simple: he moves his mouth more freely than any Spartan can. 

Agi: And no one uses their teeth like a Spartan woman. Tongues conceive nothing. They spill stillborn seeds into the air, charming helots, Athenians, and whores. Who could be had by him? 

Tim: All of Sparta, my liege. 

Agi: We were not. Only he knew our enemy. Declea was strengthened by his advice. Syracuse was nearly stormed but saved by his words. Yet for all his service, he serves no one.

Tim: Yet his service is legion, spread but manifold, rivaled by few and surpassed by none. He came to you as a traitor, charged with impiety, and was welcomed. From his station he did what any would. As did you. 

Agi: Speak freely, but you are no Gorgo.

Tim: Nor you Leonidas. 

Agi: The clash of Spartan spears over Mantineia

Drove braggarts and cowards into the dust

And the flutes your hero so despises 

Resounded over my victorious sweep

As Sparta at last gained its rightful place.

Tim. Yes, your triumph. Let us applaud, for these boasts have never before graced our ears! But who does not love glory? It is only a question of kind; it is only how you call it and why. 

[An Athenian defector, Anakletos, enters the room.]

Ana: My king, this is what you get when women drink openly. 

Agi. But here, marry an only daughter and gain her father’s property. 

Ana. Fair then, and I am glad to say I did not come to entertain. Our friend has found refuge in the Phyrgian satrapy. He is within their walls and within our sights. 

Agi. Then do what must be done. Turn your arrows all, all of them, against one. My head is heavy, I will take my leave. 

Tim. Silence suits you, my king.  

[Agis tiredly stumbles away from the room. Anakletos turns to 

Timaea with a grin.]

Tim. Let him think he is dead, and I will reward you. A chest of silver if left unscathed by your daggers—whatever you desire if he learns his life was spared by my decree.

Ana. This can be arranged, yet I am perplexed.

For his breathing grants you no reprieve, 

Nor deprivation but could quickly kill you. 

Where is his honey-slathered speech now? 

How could one without loyalty capture you?

He gives us nothing, yet lives on through you

Tim. Should you spare the worm on the path or the wolf in the woods? Should we starve the sickly babe or slit the ailing elder’s throat? It is not what it does, but what it is, that is what keeps our blades sheathed. What it is, hope and wisdom say, is what it can be. Go now. Let me nurse this sliver of a dream. 

Ana. As you wish. Keep your chest warm, my queen. 

Scene III: Alcibiades has established himself in his new home, a spacious but modestly furnished house. The decorations are tasteful but eclectic. 

A symposium is underway. As the sun sets, courtesans enter with fresh amphora. They play lovely songs softly. 

Alcibiades, Kūfa, and Sophron, an Athenian he has known since boyhood, reclining on couches and enjoying each other’s company.