Creation (21 page)

A week later Artaphrenes gave a banquet at Croesus’ palace. I cannot remember why. I do remember that it was not until midnight that one of the guests noticed that there was fire in the city. Since Sardis was so ill made, no one thought anything of it. Every day houses burn down; every day they are rebuilt. The emblem of Sardis should be not the lion but the phoenix.

While Hippias was reminding us yet again of the affection that all Greeks felt for his family, a series of messages arrived. Greek forces had disembarked at Ephesus. They were marching upon Sardis; They were at the city’s gates. They were within the city. They had fired the city.

Not only was Artaphrenes stunned but he showed it, a clear sign that he was not fit to conduct what was developing into a major war. On the other hand, who would have believed that a band of reckless Ionian and Athenian Greeks would have had the temerity to march deep into Persian territory and set fire to the capital of Lydia?

Artaphrenes ordered the call to arms. Since the destroying flames made day of night, we were able to see one another clearly as we hurried to the park where the troops were, assembling. To a man, they were ready for battle. But where was the enemy? Meanwhile, the sky was bright with red-gold flames, and what had been a cool night was now as sweltering as a Susan summer.

Finally one of Artaphrenes’ aides appeared. We were to withdraw, he said, “in good order” to the acropolis. Unfortunately, the order came too late. Every road out of the city was blocked by flames. So we did the only thing that we could do: we hurried to the marketplace. If worst came to worst, we could swim in the river until the fire had burned itself out. Needless to say, the same thought had occurred to everyone in Sardis. By the time we arrived in the market enclosure, it was already crowded with townspeople as well as with Persian and Lydian troops.

I suppose the last day of creation will be something like the burning of Sardis. Deafening noise of people screaming, animals howling, buildings crashing one upon another as the fire leapt this way and that in obedience to a fickle wind.

But the wind that destroyed Sardis saved our lives. Had it not blown with some steadiness, we would have suffocated from the flames. As it was, there was sufficient heavy air for us to breathe. Also, the high wall that ringed the marketplace acted as a firebreak. Nothing inside the market caught fire except the row of palm trees that edged the deep fire-reflecting river.

I prayed to the Wise Lord, and shuddered at the thought of the molten metal at creation’s end. I have never felt so entirely helpless.

“We could make a raft,” Milo said. “We could float downstream.”

“That’s where your Athenians are. When we float past them, they’ll kill us, one by one.”

“Well, we could use logs. We could duck under them—like those people.”

A great many Sardians were splashing about in the water, holding on to bits of wood or air-filled bladders.

“We’d have to get rid of our armor.” I preferred drowning to burning, but at that moment I was willing to wait as long as possible before making a terminal choice.

Milo shook his head. “I can’t disarm.” As a professional soldier and heir of tyrants, he must die in battle. Only there was no battle save the one against two of the four elements.

Suddenly the Lydian cavalry charged across the marketplace. The mane of one horse was aflame: so were the long braids of its rider. As if by common consent, both horse and rider plunged into the river.

Luckily, Artaphrenes’ chief of staff appeared on the scene. I forget his name, which is ungrateful of me because he saved our lives. I do remember that he was a large man and that he carried a short whip, which he used freely on everyone, military and civilian.

“Fall in! Take your positions. Cavalry to the left, by the wall. Infantry, by companies, along the riverbank. Keep clear of the burning trees. All civilians to the other side!”

To my amazement, we were once again a disciplined army. I remember thinking: Now we’ll be burned alive in perfect formation. But the fire stayed outside the market wall. On the other hand, the Greeks did not. With a noisy paean, they came running into the marketplace. When they saw the Persian army and the Lydian cavalry drawn up for battle, they stopped in their tracks.

As the citizens of Sardis ran for cover, the Persian commander gave the command to attack. Without a sound, the Greeks vanished the way they had come. Although the cavalry tried to follow them through the city’s fiery winding lanes, the Greeks were too quick for them, and the fire too fierce.

By noon the next day, two thirds of Sardis was ashes—ashes that smoldered for weeks. But the city that had been built so haphazardly in the first place was rebuilt with astonishing speed and in six months Sardis was its somewhat improved old self again, except for the temple of Cybele, which was left in ruins. This turned out to be a good thing for us. Although Lydians tend to be pro-Greek, they were in such a fury at the sacrilege shown to Cybele that the Lydian cavalry annihilated half the Greek forces on the road to Ephesus.

Nevertheless, the overall Greek strategy had been successful. They had challenged the Great King in the heart of his empire. They had burned the capital of Lydia. They had forced Artobazanes to lift the siege of Miletus in order to defend Lydia. Meanwhile, at sea, the combined fleets of Aristagoras and the Athenians proved to be invulnerable and, for a time, invincible.

Later that winter the Ionian cities were joined in their rebellion by the island of Cyprus, and Persia was now at war with a formidable new entity known as the Ionian Commonwealth.

I STAYED AT SARDIS FOR TWO YEARS. I did my work as a staff officer. I was sent on a number of expeditions upcountry. At one point we tried and failed to take back the northern city of Byzantium. I was at Sardis when I learned of Hystaspes’ death. He had died while supervising the construction of Darius’ tomb. I mourned him. He was the best of men.

At Sardis, I helped Mardonius celebrate, first, his victory in Cyprus, which he had regained for Persia; then, his marriage to Artazostra, the Great King’s daughter. According to Lais, she was a pretty girl but stone-deaf from birth. Mardonius was to have four sons by her.

Shortly before I returned to Susa, Histiaeus went into rebellion against the Great King, and Lais decided that it was time to visit her family in Abdera. She always knew when to vanish, when to reappear. By then Lais had trouble remembering his name.

When I came home to Susa, I was surprised—I was still innocent in those days—to find that hardly anyone wanted to hear about the Ionian revolt. Although the burning of Sardis had been a shock, the court was confident that the Greeks would soon be punished. Meanwhile, everyone was far more intrigued by the latest pretender to the throne of Babylon. I have never known a time when there was not a pretender to that ancient throne. Even to this day, from time to time, some wild man will appear out of the Babylonian countryside and announce that he is the true heir to Nebuchadnezzar. This is always embarrassing for what is left of the old royal family, and annoying for the Great King. Despite their native indolence, Babylonians are subject to fits of violence, particularly the countryfolk when they drink too much palm wine.

“I’m being sent to put down the rebellion,” said Xerxes. We were in the exercise ground where so much of our childhood had been spent. Nearby the next generation of Persian nobility was practicing archery. I remember thinking how old we both were now, and how relieved I was to be free of those Magian teachers.

“Have they much support?”

“No. The king’s eye says it shouldn’t take me more than a few days ...” Xerxes frowned. I had never seen him so distracted. I soon found out the reason. “Mardonius has won a real victory, hasn’t he?”

“Cyprus is ours again.” I had not spent a life at court for nothing. I knew how to address a jealous prince. “But Mardonius was hardly alone. The invasion plan was Artaphrenes’. And then the admiral in charge ...”

“Mardonius has got the credit. That’s all that matters. And here I sit, doing nothing.”

“You’ve married. That’s something.” Xerxes had recently married Amestris, the daughter of Otanes.

“That’s nothing.”

“Your father-in-law is the richest man in the world. That’s something.”

Ordinarily, Xerxes would have been amused. But he was not now. He was genuinely upset. “All of you are real soldiers.”

“Some less than others,” I said, wanting to make him laugh. But he did not hear me.

“I’m practically a eunuch,” he said, “a harem fixture.”

“You go to Babylon.”

“Only because it’s safe.”

“You are the Great King’s heir.”

“No,” said Xerxes, “I am not the heir.”

I was too stunned to do more than gape.

“There has been a change,” he said.

“Artobazanes?”

Xerxes nodded. “He’s doing well in Caria. Or so they say. My father talks of him constantly.”

“That is no sign.”

“The Great King has said from the lion throne that the succession will not be determined until Athens has been destroyed.”

“But suppose he dies first?”

“The Great King is all-powerful. He will die at a time of his own choosing.” Only with me did Xerxes ever betray any bitterness toward his father. But then, in some ways, I was closer to him than any of his brothers. After all, I was not royal. I was no threat.

“What does Queen Atossa say?”

“What does she
not
say!” Xerxes managed a smile. “You’ve never seen such a parade of Magians and priests and witches as she has got, all marching through her apartments.”

“Does Darius ... march through her quarters?”

“No.” The answer was short, but hardly conclusive. Since Atossa controlled much of the administration of the empire through the eunuchs of the harem, she was often able to influence Darius at a discreet distance.

“I shall go to her,” I said.

“I’ll be gone by the time you’ve talked to her. I shall be conquering Babylon.” Xerxes tried but failed to joke. Suddenly he said, “Cyrus made
his
son king of Babel before he died.”

I made no comment. I did not dare.

As we practiced with the javelin I told Xerxes about the siege of Miletus and the burning of Sardis. But he was more interested in Mardonius’ affair with Artemisia.

“I envy him,” said Xerxes—with sadness, not envy.

LAIS HAD NUMEROUS COMPLAINTS about Abdera, her sea journey, recent events at court. She had grown rather fat. “Thracian cooking! Everything is soaked in pig fat. He’s well again, you know. My father, your grandfather. I’m sorry that you’ve never known him. We got on famously. I cured him, you know. But what a place! Our relatives are really more Thracian than Greek by now. I’ve actually seen cousins of mine wearing fox-skin caps!”

I was given not only a full description of my grandfather’s household possessions at Abdera but a series of spirited portraits of a family I had yet to meet.

Characteristically, despite a separation of three years, Lais did not ask me once about myself. In fact, she has never shown the slightest interest in my affairs when we are alone together; yet when strangers are present—or when I am not present—she boasts constantly of my mystical powers and religious fervor. But were it not for me, Lais would have had no place at court. I must say that the fact that I have never interested Lais has never caused me pain. I understood her character too well. I also realized early on that whenever she put herself forward, I benefited as well. We were like a pair of accidental travelers made allies by a series of common dangers.

On my side, I always found Lais beguiling. She is easily the most plausible liar that I have ever known; and my life has been spent at courts and with Greeks.

I told Lais that I had requested an audience with Queen Atossa, but so far it had not been granted. She made a series of signs—no doubt to hasten the hour of my reception by the queen.

Lais then confirmed Xerxes’ suspicions. Ever since Artobazanes proved to be an effective commander in the field, Darius had begun to speak of a possible change in the succession. The fact that Mardonius had conquered Cyprus also added to the glory of the family of Gobryas. Meanwhile Queen Atossa had withdrawn into the inner chambers of the third house of the harem. Although no one knew what she was planning, Lais was optimistic. “Atossa will find a way to advance her son. She is simply cleverer than anyone else at court, including”—Lais dropped her voice dramatically as if we were being spied on, which we were not: we were not important enough—“Darius.”

“But why doesn’t he let Xerxes have the same chance as the others?”

“Because Darius is afraid of the combination of Atossa and Xerxes. Darius may rule in Persia, but Atossa governs. If Xerxes were to be at the head of a victorious army in the plains of ... of Caria or some such place, and Atossa were at Susa, and the stars were in a certain conjunction ...”

“Treason?”

“Why not? Such things have happened before. And Darius knows it. That’s why he keeps Xerxes home. That’s why he allows his other sons and nephews to win all sorts of victories. But Atossa will make the difference.”

“You are sure?”

“I am sure. But it won’t be easy. We must all help. You can do your part by taking your lawful place as chief Zoroastrian. Your uncle is a fool. You could replace him in a day.”

Lais then outlined a strategy whereby I would become the leader of our order. I did not tell her that I would rather be bitten by one of Cybele’s snakes. I was not meant to be a priest; yet at the same time I was not at all sure just where my future would lie. I had shown no real aptitude for war. I could always become a councilor of state or a court chamberlain; unfortunately, the eunuchs do that sort of thing better than we. At heart, I wanted only to serve my friend Xerxes—and see far-off places.

A week after the gloomy Xerxes had left for Babylon, I was granted an audience with Queen Atossa. As usual, the door to her apartments was guarded by imposing eunuchs, dressed like kings. I never saw her in those apartments that I did not remember myself as a terrified child, slithering across the red-and-black carpet. The rug was now quite threadbare but Atossa never replaced anything—or anyone—that she liked.