The Corinthians knew the Athenians' larger fleet and masterly seamanship gave them a crushing advantage. To counter it, they modified their ships' prows, making them shorter and stouter to withstand ramming. Having neutralised their adversaries' superiority by departing from the conventional Greek ship design, they raised their victory trophy at Erineus on the Achaean shore.
But despite extensive damage, the Athenians held the water at the fighting’s end, recovered the wrecks and the dead and, according to traditional standards, were the victors. In the hours that followed, they rowed across the Gulf and planted a counter-trophy at Molycrian Rhion, on the Aetolian side.
By the early morning light the two trophies therefore came clearly into view only three kilometres apart. Longstanding rules, that awarded victory to one side or the other, had been breached; but it was something far deeper that lay broken at Erineus.
German intellectual historian Hans Blumenberg ∼ who had experienced the rise of Nazism ∼ put it best. Human beings, he argued, are constitutionally incapable of living in unfiltered contact with reality, exposed to the overwhelming, undifferentiated threat of a world that offers no given orientation, no protection. We therefore connect ourselves to it through the mediating tissue of myth and ritual, metaphor and story.
These do not give us access to the world as it is; they render it intelligible by investing events with significance and placing them within a widely understood frame. And what makes a society viable is sufficient overlap between its members' mental maps to allow them to manage their differences.
When the common repertoire of memories, symbols and words breaks down, that connective tissue is not merely strained; it is torn apart. The result is what Thucydides called stasis: a condition in which conflict can no longer be contained by the civic order, driving society towards rupture.
The war, as Erineus revealed, had shredded the Greek world’s shared frame of significance — undermining ritual, dissolving trust and corroding alliances once deemed secure.
However, the process ran not only between poleis but within them. And nowhere was the descent into stasis more disastrous than in Thucydides' beloved Athens.
Against stasis, Athens had, at the war’s outset, one extraordinary bulwark: the city as Pericles had taught his generation to see it. What distinguished the Athenians, Pericles said in the Funeral Oration, was that they loved life and lived it fully, yet were ready to die for their city, precisely because the city gave them so much.
But claiming love of, and loyalty to, the city was easy when both were without cost. Once the plague descended on Athens in 430BC, bringing sudden and unpredictable death, Athenians began to live for the moment, placing present appetite above future concerns.
Soon after, with Pericles dying while the plague raged, his demagogic successors devoted their specious rhetoric to inflaming division rather than fostering collective purpose.
It was, however, the war that consummated the rupture into opposing camps. War,
Thucydides writes, filches away the easy provision of the everyday.
The civic decencies proved dependent on peace and plenty; when citizens were forced to bear even the slightest hardship, the thinness of the civic compact was exposed.
By then, dialogue had collapsed and the factions were hermetically enclosed in their own myths, entrenching the hatreds between them. The war had come home. It was only a matter of time before external enemies administered the coup de grace to a body that had already lost its capacity to cohere. Thucydides' formula is terse: the Athenians did not succumb to Sparta; they succumbed to one another.
Thucydides, with what Nietzsche praised as his courage in the face of reality
, diagnosed the disease as its victim lay dying. But he did far more than that. His history is itself a compensatory act of significance-making in the face of significance’s dissolution.
By giving the war a shape, a language, a set of themes that still organise political thought, Thucydides produced a ktêma es aiei
, a possession for all time. He wrote, he tells us, so that future men, when they see similar tragedies looming ∼ and the nature of human affairs makes their recurrence inevitable ∼ may recognise the risks and act accordingly.
Two and a half millennia later, his warning resonates. Once again, we are in a war marred not only by the clash of arms but by a cacophony of contradictory claims.
War, by its nature, shrouds gains and losses in secrecy, deception and misrepresentation. Worse still, assessments of its likely course are vitiated by the inherent unpredictability of action and reaction: what Thucydides called to astathmëton
— the irreducible contingency of a world that can be acted upon but never fully mastered.
But despite those factors, which urge caution, there is an extraordinary rush to judgment, pronouncing outcomes and anointing victors, before they are decided. And no less extraordinary is the vehemence with which opposing views are held, assigning all success (and tactical shrewdness) to one side and all failure (and strategic folly) to the other.
The barely disguised schadenfreude of Donald Trump’s haters and the matching ire of his supporters, are, no doubt, part of the explanation. They are, however, symptoms rather than causes, visible manifestations of the stasis Thucydides acutely analysed: the withering, here as throughout the West, of the common repertoire of values and practices through which contending arguments can be advanced, differences addressed, tensions however imperfectly contained.
And yet the crowds at the Anzac Day dawn service ∼ one of the few occasions on which Australians still gather the frayed threads of historical significance ∼ show the longing for a shared framework of meaning persists.
Inaugurated in another time of bitter division, after the searing antagonisms of the conscription referendums, the dawn service’s ritual centre, with its They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old
, says nothing of the dead’s relation to eternity; it speaks instead of the living’s relation to the dead, conferring enduring meaning on events that unfolded more than a century ago in war’s all-enveloping fog.
The Last Post is sounded into the dark; the silence is kept; the Rouse follows as the sky begins to brighten. Between the two lies a held breath in which the nation briefly becomes, once more, a community.
That is a pause, not a cure. But if, in those few moments, we can resolve to remember not only the fallen but the achievements, now so often derided, of the nation for which they fought and died; to refuse the continued perversion of truth and the escalation of hatred; and to renew the capacity ∼ when the reckoning comes, as it will ∼ to stand-to at dawn beside those who stand with us, then this will be a country that has merited their sacrifice.
Day of Remembrance and the roar of the Railway Hotel's two up is followed by a day of festivities as the markets hold court in Remembrance Park, the doggies bound around Wilson Oval and both art venues (Michael Reid and Murra Museum Church Hall) open their doors.
