Creation (53 page)

Atossa was less than enlightening. “Parmys is a significant name for an Achaemenid, that’s all. You’ll find her very bad-tempered but intelligent. Two qualities
I
wouldn’t want in a wife, if I were a man, which I’m not, worse luck. Anyway, it is who not what she is that matters. Take her. If she becomes too disagreeable, beat her.”

I took her. I beat her once. It did no good. Parmys was a woman of furious temper and strong will, an Atossa gone entirely wrong. Physically, she resembled Darius. But features that looked handsome when arranged on the Great King’s face managed to look all wrong on hers. When we were married she was eighteen, and horrified to get me for a husband. At the least, she had expected one of The Six; at the most, the crown of some neighboring kingdom. Instead, she was wife to a mere king’s eye. To make matters worse, she was a dedicated devil-worshiper and would stop her ears at any mention of Zoroaster. She so offended me on one occasion that I struck her as hard as I could with the back of my hand. She fell across a low table and broke her left wrist. It is said that a woman will love a man who treats her violently. This proved not to be true in the case of Parmys. From that moment on, she hated me more than ever.

For several years I had my own establishment at Susa, and Parmys shared the women’s quarters with Lais, who, needless to say, liked her very much. There is no end to Lais’ perversity. I kept no concubines in the house, as it was not large enough; and I took no more wives. So the two ladies were much together. I have never had any desire to know what they talked about. I can imagine their conversations all too well.

After a daughter was born dead, I stopped seeing Parmys. When Xerxes became Great King, I asked him to take her back, which he did. She died while I was in Cathay. This is a very unhappy story, Democritus, and I see no point in dwelling on it.

I questioned Artemisia about her relations with the satrap. As king’s eye, I was intent on righting wrongs and making a certain amount of necessary trouble. Artemisia answered my questions with serene good humor. “We have an excellent relationship. He never comes to see me and I never go to see him. I pay tribute directly to the treasury at Susa, and the treasurer seems content.
He
has visited me several times.”

“Who is treasurer?” Mardonius liked to pretend that he did not know the names of any of the officials in the chancellery on the ground that he was too great for mere clerks. But he knew, as we all did, that the empire is governed by the clerks in the chancellery and by the eunuchs in the harem.

“Baradkama,” I said. “He is thought to be honest. I know that he demands complete accounts of what is spent at Persepolis, and if a single consignment of cedarwood is not accounted for, heads roll.”

“I wish I were as well served,” said Artemisia. “In my small way.”

Suddenly a lyre was struck in the next room. Mardonius groaned; and Artemisia sat very straight in her chair.

In the doorway stood a tall fair-haired man, dressed as a beggar. He held a lyre in one hand and a walking stick in the other. Rather clumsily, he played the lyre with the hand that held the stick. As he approached us he tapped the floor with his stick, the way so many blind men like to walk but not I. Few people seem to know that the blind are able to sense the presence of an obstacle before they come to it. I don’t know the explanation for this, but it is a fact. As a result, I seldom stumble, much less walk into a wall. Nevertheless, certain blind men—usually beggars—like to advertise their infirmity by tapping a stick in front of them as they walk.

“Hail, O Queen!” The blind man’s voice was loud and not at all pleasing. “And hail to thee, O noble Lords! Let a humble bard delight you with the songs of his ancestor, blind Homer, who sprang from yonder mountain-crossed fast-river-blessed Cos. Yea, I am of the blood of him who sang of those Argives who sailed ’gainst high-gated Troy. Yea, I, too, sing the songs that Homer sang, tales of beauteous Helen and false Paris, of doomed Patroclus and his testy catamite Achilles, of lordly Priam and his calamitous fall! Attend me!”

With that, the bard sang at hideous length, to the accompaniment of an imperfectly strung lyre. Not only was the singer’s voice unpleasant, it was deafening. Oddest of all was the song that he sang. Like all Greek-speakers, I know by heart quantities of Homer and I recognized many of the verses that fell—no, were ejected—from the blind man’s lips like stones launched by a sling. First he would sing us a verse from Homer’s
Iliad
,
crudely emphasizing the six stresses to the line. Then he would sing an entirely new verse whose seven stresses to the line often contradicted entirely the meaning of what had gone before. I had the sensation that I was dreaming the sort of dream that one sometimes has after too large a Lydian dinner.

When, finally, the bard stopped, Mardonius lay as still as a dead man while Artemisia sat rigid in her chair and the king’s eye gaped—or, perhaps, stared is the better word.

“Lord Cyrus Spitama,” said Artemisia, “let me present to you my brother Prince Pigres.”

Pigres gave me a low bow. “A humble bard takes pleasure in singing for an Argive lord.”

“Actually, I’m Persian,” I said, rather stupidly. “I mean, I’m half-Greek of course ...”

“I could tell! The eyes! The brow! The commanding presence, so like Achilles!”

“Then you’re not blind?”

“No. But I am a true bard, descended from Homer, who lived across those straits.” He pointed at the window. Although Homer was born not on Cos, but on Chios, I said nothing. “His music flows through me.”

“So I heard.” I was polite. Then I remembered his characterization of Achilles. “Surely Achilles was older than Patroclus, and surely, neither one was a catamite. Weren’t they lovers in the Greek fashion?”

“You must allow a certain license to my inspiration, noble lord. Also, it is no secret that my ancestor believed that Achilles was the younger man but dared not say so.”

“Pigres is Homer born again,” said Artemisia. I could not tell if she was serious. Mardonius now lay with his back to us; he snored.

“The Persian Odysseus sleeps,” Pigres whispered. “And so we must speak softly,” he said, raising his voice. “But, oh, it is a long way from here to his home in Ithaca, where his wife Penelope plans to put him to death because she likes being queen of Ithaca, her harem filled with men.”

“But surely Penelope was happy to receive Odysseus and—” I stopped. Rather late, I had got the point. Pigres was raving mad. It has been said that Pigres only pretended madness because he feared Artemisia, who had seized the crown that was lawfully his at the time of their father’s death. If this story is true, then what had begun as a performance had ended as reality. Wear a mask too long and you will come to resemble it.

During the years of Artemisia’s rule, Pigres had reworked the entire
Iliad
.
After each of Homer’s lines, Pigres wrote one of his own. The result was maddening, particularly when sung by him. He also wrote an unusually clever narrative about a battle between some frogs and mice which he modestly attributed to Homer. One summer afternoon he sang me this work in a perfectly pleasant voice and I was very much amused by the sharp way that he mocked all the pretensions of the Aryan warrior class—a class to which I do and do not belong. I applauded him sincerely. “This is marvelous work!”

“It should be,” he said, tilting back his head and pretending to be blind. “Homer composed it. I merely sing it. I am his voice only.”

“You are Homer born again?”

Pigres smiled; put his fingers to his lips; tiptoed away. I have often wondered what became of him in Artemisia’s damp sea palace.

It was at Halicarnassus that we received the bad news from Greece. I forget who brought us the message. Some merchant ship, I suppose. I’ve also forgotten exactly what we were told. But I do know that Mardonius and I were both so alarmed that we left Halicarnassus the next morning and together went up to Susa.

TO THIS DAY ATHENIANS REGARD the battle of Marathon as the greatest military victory in the history of warfare. They exaggerate, as usual. What happened was this. Until Datis sacked Eretria and burned the city’s temples, Athens was ready to surrender. The Athenian democratic party was headed by the Alcmaeonids, the clan of our noble Pericles; and they had let it be known that if Persia would help them drive out the aristocratic party, they were more than willing to acknowledge the Great King as overlord. Precisely what they planned to do with Hippias is not clear. Although the democratic party had often been allied with the Pisistratids, the age of the tyrants was at an end and even the word itself was now accursed, a word that had once been a reflection of divinity on earth.

I have never understood why the tyrants fell into such disrepute. But then, the Greeks are the most volatile and fickle of all races because they are so easily bored. They cannot bear for things to go on as they are. In their eyes, nothing old can be good, while nothing new can be bad—until it is old. They like radical change in everything except their notion of themselves as a deeply religious people, which they are not. Persians are the opposite. Great Kings may come and go, often bloodily, but the institution of kingship is as immutable with us as it is in India and Cathay.

When Datis destroyed the city of Eretria, he lost the war. Had he made an alliance with the democrats of Eretria, they would have offered Darius earth and water, and then, with Eretrian backing, he could have moved on to Athens, where he would have been made welcome.

Democritus thinks that even if Eretria had not been destroyed, the Athenians would have resisted Persia. I doubt it. Years later, when Athens’ greatest commander, Themistocles, was expelled by the people that he had saved, he came up to Susa. I often talked to him about the Greeks in general and the Athenians in particular. Themistocles was confident that had Eretria been spared, the battle of Marathon would never have been fought. But when Eretria was destroyed, the panicky Athenians called upon their allies to come to their defense. As usual, the Spartans sent their regrets. This belligerent race is remarkably ingenious at finding excuses for not honoring military alliances. Apparently the moon was full—or not full—or whatever. Although I have never investigated the matter, I would not be surprised if the Persian treasury had paid the Spartan kings to stay home. Baradkama, the treasurer, used to complain that of all those who received secret funds from the treasury, the Spartans were the greediest and the least reliable.

Only the Plateans answered the desperate call of the Athenians. And so, just opposite the narrow channel that separates Eretria from Attica, the Athenian and Plataean troops took their stand in the plain of Marathon under the leadership of the former tyrant Miltiades. With consummate political skill, this one-time vassal of the Great King had managed to get himself elected general of Athens, in the conservative interest. Naturally, he was hated by the democrats. But thanks to Datis’ mistake at Eretria, both factions rallied around him and our forces were stopped. No, I will not fight again a battle which, at this very moment, in every tavern of the city, old men relive at joyous length. I will say that Athenian losses were as great as Persian losses. But who in Athens believes that such a thing could be true?

In good order, our troops boarded the ships. Then Datis ordered the fleet to sail straight to the Piraeus. He hoped to be able to seize Athens before the Greek army returned from Marathon. As Datis’ fleet rounded Cape Sunium, the Alcmaeonids signaled him that the city was empty and that he should attack.

But just off Phaleron, Datis was delayed by winds and by the time the winds fell, the Athenian army was within the city and the Persian expedition was at an end. Datis sailed for home. In Halicarnassus we knew nothing more than the fact that Datis and Artaphrenes had been turned back.

I have never seen Mardonius in such good spirits. He started to put on weight, and from time to time he even forgot to limp. “Next year I’ll be in command,” he said as we rode out of Halicarnassus. The smell of fermenting grapes was heavy in the air, and dark seething olives were thick upon the ground. “They’ve had their chance,” he crowed. “
And
failed! I should’ve known. Years ago the sybil at Delos said I would die master of all Greece.” He turned to me, face glowing. “You can come with me. I’ll make you governor of Athens ... No, that won’t do. You don’t want to be governor of a lot of ruins. I’ll let you have Sicily.”

“I prefer India,” I said.

As it turned out, neither dream was fulfilled.

Darius was furious at Datis’ failure. Out of loyalty to the elder Artaphrenes, Darius never blamed the younger. He simply put him on the inactive list—to Xerxes’ delight. But when the crown prince asked if he might lead the next expedition against Athens, the Great King said that there was not enough money. He would need time to fill the treasury, build a new fleet, train more armies.

The last years of Darius’ life were unexpectedly peaceful. He had now accepted the fact that he would never again lead an army. He had also come to believe, wrongly, that there were no generals whose competence he could trust. Although Mardonius was still Darius’ favorite, the Great King liked to treat his ambitious nephew as a man of his own age, with the same sort of infirmities.

“What a pair we are,” Darius would say in the gardens of Ecbatana as he walked slowly up and down, clinging to Mardonius’ arm. “Two old soldiers who’ve seen their day. Look at that leg of yours! I’d cut it off if it were mine. Nothing wrong with a wooden leg, once your fighting days are over. And they’re over for us. Oh, it’s sad!”

Darius enjoyed torturing Mardonius. I can’t think why. After all, he liked his nephew better than any man of my generation. I suppose that when Darius realized that he himself would never fight again, he wanted Mardonius to join him in his redundancy—and grief. Yes, it was grief that one saw in the old Darius’ eyes when he watched the young officers at their exercises.

Mardonius was less than pleased to be removed from the roster of the active. Once, in the gardens at Ecbatana, I saw him do a ghastly jig to show Darius how well his leg had healed. Actually, Mardonius was never able to walk properly again. On the other hand, he could ride well enough; and he had no trouble at all in his war chariot, where he was strapped into place so that the bad leg bore no weight at all.