Creation (11 page)

This seems to me to be as good an analysis of the Athenian character as we are ever apt to get—and from an Athenian! There is only one false note. No one had fallen into evil slavery. The tyrants were popular, and had it not been for the Spartan army, Cleisthenes would never have overthrown Hippias. Later, in order to consolidate his rule, Cleisthenes was obliged to make all sorts of political concessions to the mob that had once supported the tyrants. The result? The famous Athenian democracy. At this time, Cleisthenes’ only political rival was Isagoras, the leader of the aristocratic party.

Now, half a century later, nothing has changed except that instead of Cleisthenes, there is Pericles; instead of Isagoras, Thucydides. As for the heirs of Pisistratus, they are contented landowners near the Hellespont. All except my friend Milo. He died at Marathon, fighting for his family—and for the Great King.

That evening on the road from Susa to Ecbatana, I became a fervent partisan of the Pisistratids. Naturally, I do not mention my enthusiasm to present-day Athenians, who have been taught for half a century to hate the family that their grandparents loved.

Once, most delicately, I brought up the subject with Elpinice. She was surprisingly sympathetic. “They gave us the best rule we’ve ever had. But Athenians prefer chaos to order. We also hate our great men. Look what the people did to my brother Cimon.”

I pity Pericles. Since everyone agrees that he is a great man, he is bound to end badly. Elpinice thinks that he will be ostracized in a year or two.

Where was I? Ecbatana.

Even now, in my head, where most of my memories are without pictures of any kind—in some mysterious way, the blindness seems to have extended to much of my memory—I can still
see
the astonishingly beautiful approach to Ecbatana.

One travels upcountry, through a dark forest. Then, just as it seems that the city has been misplaced or one is lost, there it is, like a vision of a fortress-city, ringed by seven concentric walls, each of a different color. At the city’s exact center, a golden wall surrounds the hill on which the palace stands.

Because the highlands of Media are thickly forested, the palace is made entirely of cypress and cedar wood. As a result, the rooms smell oppressively of old wood, and fires are constantly breaking out. On the other hand, the façade of the palace is covered with squares of green copper, like armor plating. Some people think that this was done by the Medes in order to prevent enemies from firing the palace. I suspect that it was done simply for ornament. Certainly, the effect is singularly beautiful when the sun makes the pale green of the copper glow against the dark-green conifer trees that cover the mountains behind the city.

The afternoon that we entered Ecbatana, we were able to enjoy its legendary beauties for nine hours—the length of time that it took to get all of us through the seven gates. For turmoil and confusion, there is nothing to compare with the Persian court arriving at a capital city.

During those long hours before the gates of Ecbatana, I learned from Thessalus a number of Greek phrases that have since given me much pleasure in the saying.

IN MY TIME, SCHOOL LIFE WAS STRENUOUS. We were up before dawn. We were taught to use every kind of weapon. We were even taught farming and husbandry as well as mathematics and music. We learned to read and even to write, if necessary. We were taught how to build not only bridges and fortresses but palaces, too. We were given only one meager meal a day.

By the time a Persian noble is twenty, there is very little that he cannot do for himself if he has to. Originally, this educational system was much simpler: a youth was taught to ride, to draw the bow, to tell the truth; and that was that. But by the time of Cyrus, it was plain that the Persian nobility would have to know a great deal about nonmilitary matters, too. Finally, by the time of Darius, we were being deliberately educated for the sole purpose of administering the better part of the world.

But there was one aspect of governance that was kept secret from us—the harem. Although many of our instructors were eunuchs, none of us was ever told anything about the inner workings of the harem, that mysterious world forever closed to all Persian males except the Great King—and me. I have often thought that my relatively long sojourn in the harem was enormously helpful to my later career.

When I finally moved into the quarters of the royal princes, I had spent nearly three years in the harem. Ordinarily, a young noble is removed from his mother at least three years before puberty and sent to the palace school. I was an exception. As a result, I got to know not only the wives of Darius but the harem eunuchs who work closely with their counterparts in the first and second rooms of the chancellery.

Democritus wants to know what these rooms are. The first room is always located at the back of the first courtyard of whatever palace the Great King happens to be occupying. At long tables a hundred clerks receive the Great King’s correspondence as well as all petitions. After these documents are sorted out, the clerks of the second room then decide what should be shown the Great King or, more likely, which letter or petition should be given to this or that councilor of state or law-bearer. The second room exerts enormous power. Needless to say, it is in the hands of eunuchs.

In later life, Xerxes used to tease me by saying that I had all the subtlety and craft of a harem eunuch. I teased
him
by saying that if he had stayed longer in the harem, he might have learned statecraft from his mother. He would laugh; and agree. Later, there was nothing to laugh about.

I should note here that until the reign of Darius, married women of the ruling class could mingle with men, and it was not uncommon for a rich widow, say, to, manage her own estates just as if she were a man. In Cyrus’ time, women were not sequestered except, of course, during menstruation. But Darius had different notions from Cyrus. He kept the royal ladies entirely from public view. Naturally, the nobles imitated him, and their
wives were also sequestered. Today it is not possible for a Persian lady to see and talk to any man except her husband. Once married, she can never again look upon her father or her brothers—or even her sons, once they have left the harem. I am not sure why Darius was so intent on removing the royal ladies from public life. I know that he feared them politically. Even so, I don’t know why he thought that they would be less dangerous if confined to the harem. Actually, their power increased once they were removed from public gaze. In perfect secrecy they used the eunuchs, and the eunuchs used them. During the reign of Xerxes, many of the great offices of state were controlled by eunuchs in close partnership with one or another of the royal wives. This was not always a good thing. To say the least.

But even in the strict era of Darius, there were exceptions to his rules. Queen Atossa received whomever she pleased: man, woman, child or eunuch. Curiously enough, there was never any scandal about her—in my day. Years before, it was whispered that she had had an affair with Democedes, the physician who removed her breast. I rather doubt this. I knew Democedes, and he was far too clever and too nervous a man to get himself involved with a royal lady.

In her youth, Atossa preferred eunuchs to men. Most ladies do. After all, if a eunuch is sexually mature at the time of his castration, he is still capable of a normal erection. Handsome eunuchs are much fought over by the ladies of the harem. Wisely, our Great Kings choose to ignore these goings-on: women are sequestered not so much for their moral good as to make certain that their children will be legitimate. Whatever a lady may do with her eunuch or with another lady is of no concern to her master, if he be wise.

Another exception to the harem’s rules was Lais. Because she was my only relative at court, she and I saw each other regularly in her apartments, which were always just outside the precinct of the harem. A lusty woman, Lais did not feel obliged to avail herself of eunuchs or women. She was pregnant at least twice that I know of. Each time, she arranged for an abortion, which is a capital crime in Persia. But Lais has the courage of a lion. Although anyone could have denounced her, no one did. She would attribute this to the fact that she had, literally, enchanted the court. Perhaps she had. Certainly, she enthralled the tyrant Histiaeus, with whom she had a long affair.

It is curious that I have no memory of my first meeting with the most important figure in my life, Xerxes. He could never remember that meeting either. But then, why should he? Xerxes was a royal prince who was already spoken of as Darius’ heir, while I was neither noble nor priest, an anomaly at court. No one knew my rank, or what to do with me. Nevertheless, I had two powerful protectors—Hystaspes and Atossa.

Obviously, Xerxes and I met that summer at Ecbatana. Obviously, we must have seen each other at the first state reception that I ever attended: the wedding between Darius and one of his nieces, an occasion forever vivid to me because that was when I saw, at last, the Great King Darius.

For weeks the harem was in an uproar. The ladies spoke of nothing else but the marriage. Some approved the match between Darius and his niece—an eleven-year-old granddaughter of Hystaspes; some thought that the Great King should have married outside the imperial family this time. Endless and, to me, boring discussions filled the three houses of the harem.

Democritus wants to know what the three houses are. I thought everyone knew that the harem is divided into three sections. The so-called third house is occupied by the queen or the queen mother. If there is a queen mother, she will outrank the queen consort. The next house is for the women the Great King has already known. The first house contains the virgins, new acquisitions still being trained in music, dance, conversation.

On the day of the wedding there was a military display in front of the palace. To my disgust, while the rest of my schoolmates were at the palace gate attending the Great King, I was obliged to watch maneuvers from the roof of the harem.

Crushed in a mob of ladies and eunuchs, I watched with fascination the intricate drill of the ten thousand immortals, as the Great King’s personal guard are known. In the bright sun their armor looked like the silver scales of fresh-caught fish. When they threw their spears in perfect unison, the sun itself was eclipsed by a cloud of wood and iron.

Unfortunately, from where I stood, cheek pressed against a splintery wood column, I could not see the Great King, who was directly below me, beneath a canopy of gold. But I did have a good view of the bride. She was seated on a stool between the chairs of her mother and Queen Atossa. A nice-looking child, she was plainly scared out of her wits by what was happening. From time to time during the military display, either her mother or Atossa would whisper something to her. Whatever they told her did no good. She looked more and more alarmed.

Later that day the wedding of Darius and his little niece took place in private. Afterwards there was a reception in the main hall of the palace, which I attended with my schoolmates. Under Darius, court ceremonial became so intricate that something almost always went wrong. In Cathay, when any aspect of a ceremony is botched, the whole thing must begin again from the beginning. Had we been obliged to observe this rule at the Persian court, we would never have had time to govern the world.

I ascribe a certain tendency to confusion at the Persian court to the large amounts of wine that Persians drink on ceremonial occasions. This goes back to the days when they were a wild mountain clan, given to endless drinking bouts. Note that I say they and not we. The Spitamas are Medes, if not something older; and, of course, Zoroaster hated drunkenness. That is one of the reasons why the Magians so hated him. Magians guzzle not only wine but sacred haoma.

I can still recall the awe that I felt when I first saw the lion throne on its dais. Made for King Croesus of Lydia, the back of the throne is a life-size lion, golden face turned to look over the left shoulder, emerald eyes aglitter, ivory teeth bared. A canopy of hammered gold is suspended over the throne by a long chain, while to the left and the right of the dais, elaborate silver braziers contain burning sandalwood.

At Ecbatana, the walls of the apadana—or hall of columns—are hung with tapestries depicting events in the life of Cambyses. Although the conquest of Egypt is shown in considerable detail, the Great King Cambyses’ mysterious death is tactfully omitted.

I stood with my schoolmates to the right of the throne. The royal princes were closest to the throne. Next to the princes were the sons of The Six—and next to them were the boy guests of the Great King. I had been placed at the dividing line between the guests and the nobles, between Milo and Mardonius, the youngest son of Gobryas by the Great King’s sister.

At the left of the throne stood the six nobles who had made it possible for Darius to become Great King. Although one of the original Six had been recently put to death for treason, his eldest son was permitted to represent a permanently ennobled and honored family.

As the world knows, when Cambyses was in Egypt, a Magian named Gaumata pretended to be Mardos, brother of Cambyses. When Cambyses died on his way home from Egypt, Gaumata seized the throne. But young Darius, with the aid of The Six, killed the pseudo-Mardos, married Atossa, the widow of both Gaumata and Cambyses, and became Great King. This is what all the world knows.

Of The Six, I was particularly interested in Gobryas, a tall, slightly stooped man whose hair and beard had been dyed blood-red. Lais told me later that the hairdresser had made the fatal error of using the wrong dyes—fatal for the hairdresser, that is. He was put to death. Largely because of that somewhat ludicrous first impression, I could never take Gobryas as seriously as everyone else did in those days.

I have often wondered what Gobryas thought of Darius. I suspect that he hated him. Certainly, he envied him. After all, Gobryas had as much or as little right to the throne as Darius. But it was Darius who became Great King, and that was that. Now Gobryas wanted his grandson Artobazanes to be Darius’ heir, and the court had divided on that issue. The Six inclined to Artobazanes; Atossa and the family of Cyrus wanted Xerxes. As always, Darius himself was cryptic. The succession had not been decided.