Creation (18 page)

When Darius heard the translation, he smiled for the first time. “I shall be interested,” he said mildly, “to learn how legitimacy is proved or disproved thirty years after conception.”

Democedes’ translation was somewhat less blunt than Darius’ joke. But, curiously enough, Hippias turned out to be absolutely right. Demaratus
was
proved to be illegitimate, and deposed. He then came straight up to Susa, where he served most loyally the Great King—and Lais. Not long after, Cleomenes died raving mad. Unable to stop biting himself, he bled to death. Demaratus always delighted in describing his rival’s peculiar end.

Darius clapped his hands, and the cupbearer brought him a silver flagon containing boiled water from the river that flows past Susa. No matter where the Great King is, he drinks water from the Choaspes River which he never offers to anyone else. He also drinks only Helbon wine, eats only Assis wheat, and uses salt only from the Ammon oasis in Egypt. I don’t know how these customs started. They are probably an inheritance from the Median kings, whom the Achaemenids imitate in so many things.

As Darius drank, I noticed that Democedes was studying his patient carefully: constant thirst is a sign of skin fevers. Darius always drank large quantities of water, and he was often feverish. Yet he was a hearty man, and able to withstand all sorts of hardship in the field. Nevertheless, at any court anywhere on earth, there is always one constant, yet never-voiced question: How much longer will the monarch live? That winter day in the hunting lodge on the road to Pasargada, Darius had thirteen more years of life, and we need not have been particularly attentive to the quantities of water that he drank.

Darius dried his beard with the back of one thick, square, much-scarred hand. “Tyrant of Athens,” he began. Then he stopped. Democedes started to translate. Then he stopped too. Darius had spoken Greek.

Darius looked up at the cedar beams that held up the ill-chinked ceiling. Cold winds whistled through the lodge. Although highland Persian nobles are not supposed to notice extremes of weather, everyone in that hall was shivering with cold except the much-swathed Darius.

The Great King began to improvise—something that I had never heard him do, since I had never attended him except on those ceremonial occasions when questions and responses are as ritualized as my grandfather’s sacred antiphonies.

“The north comes first,” he said. “That is where the danger is. That is where my ancestor Cyrus died, fighting the tribes. That is why I went to the Danube River. That is why I went to the Volga River. That is why I slaughtered every Scythian that I could find. But not even the Great King can find them all. They are still there. The hordes are always waiting. Waiting to move south. One day they will. If it is in my time, I shall slaughter them once again, but—” Darius stopped; his eyes were half shut, as if he were surveying a field of battle. Perhaps he was reliving his defeat—at this date one may use the precise word—in the Scythian forests. If Histiaeus had not kept the Ionian Greeks from burning the bridge between Europe and Asia, the Persian army would have perished. Darius never ceased to be grateful to Histiaeus. He also never ceased to distrust him. That is why he thought that if Histiaeus was the Great King’s guest, he would be less dangerous than at home in Miletus. This proved to be a mistake.

I could see that Histiaeus was eager to remind us all of his crucial role in the Scythian war, but he dared not speak until given leave—unlike the Great King’s brother Artaphrenes, who had the right to speak whenever he chose in council.

I found all of this, by the way, most illuminating. For one thing, I realized that although I had been brought up at court, I knew nothing about the way in which Persia was actually governed. When Xerxes spoke to me of his father, he said only conventional things. Hystaspes sometimes grumbled about his son; but said nothing more.

It was not until the meeting at the lodge that I began to understand just who and what Darius was, and even in his old age—I am now old enough to have been his father that day!—I was able to glimpse something of the fiery ingenious youth who overthrew the so-called Magian usurper and made himself master of the world while retaining the loyalty of the six nobles who had helped him to the throne.

Darius motioned for the cupbearer to withdraw. Then he turned to Artaphrenes. The brothers looked not at all alike. Artaphrenes was a somewhat coarser version of their father Hystaspes.

“Great King and brother.” Artaphrenes bowed his head. Darius blinked; no more. When the chiefs of the Persian clans are together, it is often what is
not
said in words that is the true substance of the meeting. Years later Xerxes told me that Darius had a wide range of gestures with which he communicated his will. Unfortunately I was never in attendance on him long enough to learn the all-important code.

Artaphrenes began: “I believe that Hippias is our friend, as was his father, whom we allowed the lordship at Sigeum. I believe that it is in our interest to see restored at Athens the house of Pisistratus.”

Thessalus’ face showed delight. But Hippias’ face was as impassive as that of Darius. He was a wary man, accustomed to disappointment.

Artaphrenes provided the disappointment when he suddenly shifted the subject. “Two weeks ago, at Sardis, I received Aristagoras of Miletus.”

Histiaeus sat up very straight. The small dark eyes studied every gesture of the satrap.

“As the Great King knows”—the phrase which is used at court to prepare the Great King for something that he either does not know or has forgotten or does not want to know—“Aristagoras is the nephew as well as the son-in-law of our loyal friend and ally who honors us with his presence here today.” Artaphrenes indicated Histiaeus with a gesture of the right hand. “The tyrant of Miletus who prefers, as who does not, the company of the Great King to his native land.”

I think that Darius smiled at this point. Unfortunately, the beard was too thick about the lips for me to be certain.

“Aristagoras acts at Miletus in the name of his father-in-law,” said the satrap. “He claims to be as loyal to us as to the tyrant himself. I believe him. After all, the Great King has never failed to support the tyrants of those Greek cities that belong to him.” Artaphrenes stopped. He turned to Darius. A look—some sort of code?—was exchanged.

Darius said, “Aristagoras is dear to us.” He smiled at Histiaeus. “For he is dear to you, our friend.”

Histiaeus took this glance to mean that he could speak. He rose. “Great King, my nephew is a natural warrior. He is a naval commander of proven worth.”

The history of the world might have been changed if at that point someone had asked where and when and how Aristagoras had shown any competence as a military leader.

I now know that Histiaeus and Artaphrenes were in league together. But at the time I was simply a green boy with only the haziest notion of where Miletus and Sardis and Athens were, much less
what
they were. I knew that it was Persian policy to support Greek tyrants. I also knew that our favorite tyrants were constantly being driven into exile by the rising class of merchants in combination with the nobility—if one can use that word to describe any Greek class. Hereabouts, the possession of two horses and a farm with one olive tree makes for a noble.

“Aristagoras believes that the island of Naxos is vulnerable,” said the satrap. “If the Great King will provide him with a fleet, he swears that he will add Naxos to our empire.”

Suddenly I remembered that day in Ecbatana, years before, when Democedes and Histiaeus had spoken of Naxos and, inexperienced though I was, I was quick to make the connection.

“Once we hold Naxos, we will control that chain of islands called the Cyclades. Once we control these islands, the Great King will be sea lord as well as lord of all the lands.”

“I am sea lord,” said Darius. “I hold Samos. The sea is mine.”

Artaphrenes made a cringing gesture. “I spoke of
islands
,
Great King. You are all-powerful, of course. But you will need islands if you are to approach, step by step, the mainland of Greece in order that our friends may rule once again in Athens.” Neatly, Artaphrenes had connected Aristagoras’ ambition to conquer Naxos with the restoration of the house of Pisistratus, the ostensible reason for the high council.

There was a long silence. Thoughtfully Darius arranged and then rearranged his heavy woollen outer robe. Finally he spoke. “Trade is bad in our Greek cities. The shipyards are idle. Tax revenues have fallen off.” Darius stared at the arrangement of spears on the wall opposite him. “When Sybaris fell, Miletus lost the Italian market. That is a serious matter. Where will Miletus sell all that wool the Italians used to buy?” Darius looked at Histiaeus.

The tyrant said, “There is no comparable market anywhere else. That is why I shaved my head when Sybaris was drowned.”

I was amazed that Darius knew anything at all about something so prosaic as the Milesian wool trade. I was later to discover that Darius spent most of his days fretting about caravan routes, world markets, trade. I had made the common mistake of thinking that the Great King was the same in private as he was in public—hieratic, gorgeous, immaterial. The opposite was the case.

In fact, as we sat in that cold room of the hunting lodge, Darius had already grasped a point overlooked by all his councilors. While they wanted to make him sea lord, he wanted to revive the lagging industries of the Ionian Greek cities of Asia Minor. Darius always preferred gold to glory—no doubt on the excellent ground that the first can always buy the second. “How many ships,” he asked, “would be needed for the conquest of Naxos?”

“Aristagoras thinks that he can take Naxos with a hundred battleships under sail.” Artaphrenes spoke precisely. He was never at a loss for words. He always appeared to know the right answer to every question. He was also perfectly incompetent, as later events proved.

“With two hundred ships,” said Darius, “he can make himself sea lord. In
my
name, of course.” Darius’ smile was plainly visible now; and altogether charming.

“I swear that he will serve you as loyally as I have—and do, Great King.” Histiaeus spoke the absolute truth as, again, later events proved.

“I am certain of that.” Darius then commanded: “One hundred new triremes are to be built in the shipyards of our Ionian cities. They are to be ready at the spring equinox. They will then proceed to Miletus, where they will be joined by one hundred ships from our Samian fleet. Our brother the satrap of Lydia will see to the execution of this plan.”

“You will be obeyed in all things, Great King.” Artaphrenes made the ceremonial response. He was careful not to show how delighted he was. On the other hand, Histiaeus was plainly aglow with pleasure. Only the Athenians looked glum: it is a long way from Naxos to Athens.

“We shall place the fleet under the command of our most loyal admiral ...”

Histiaeus’s heavy face was now ajar with a broad smile.

“... and cousin Megabetes.” Darius could not resist watching Histiaeus’ lips snap shut.

“Second in command will be Aristagoras.” As Darius stood up, we all bowed low. “Such is the Great King’s will,” said Darius and, as is the custom, we repeated in unison, “Such is the Great King’s will.”

The Greek wars were now under way.

Hystaspes and I stayed for two days at the hunting lodge. Each day Darius entertained us with a formidable feast. Although the Great King himself dined alone or with Xerxes, he would join us later for wine drinking. Since all Highlanders pride themselves on the amounts of wine they can consume, I was not surprised to note that as each drinking-party progressed, less and less water from the Choaspes River was mixed with the Great King’s Helbon wine. But like all his clan, Darius had a strong head. No matter how much he drank, he was never foolish. But he did tend to fall asleep abruptly. The moment that he did, his cupbearer and his charioteer would carry him off to bed. The highlanders outdrank the low-land Greeks. Except for Hippias, who simply looked more and more sad as he realized that for the moment, his mission had failed.

I remember very little else about that famous council. I do recall that Xerxes was looking forward to taking part in the campaign against Naxos, but that there was some question whether or not he would be allowed to go.

“I am the heir,” he told me as we rode together on a cold, bright winter morning. “It’s all been decided. But no one’s supposed to know—just yet.”

“Everyone knows in the harem,” I said. “They talk of nothing else.” This was true.

“Even so, it’s still just a rumor until the Great King actually speaks, and he won’t speak until he leaves to go to war.” Under Persian law, the Great King must name his heir before he goes to war; otherwise, should he be killed, there could be chaos of the sort that followed upon Cambyses’ unexpected death.

As we raced our horses, the cold winter air clearing our brains of the previous day’s drinking, I had no way of knowing that we were living through the high noon of the Persian empire. Ironically, in the vigor of my youth and at the apex of Persia’s golden age, I suffered from constant headaches and heaviness of the stomach, the result of those interminable banquets and drinking parties. A few years later I simply announced that, as the prophet’s grandson, I could only drink on ritual occasions. This wise decision made it possible for me to live as long as I have. Since long life is a curse, I now realize that I should have drunk more Helbon wine.

IN THE SUMMER OF THE NEXT YEAR, Mardonius and I left Babylon for Sardis. We traveled with four companies of cavalry and eight companies of foot soldiers. As we left by the Ishtar Gate the ladies of the harem waved to us from the roof of the new palace; but then, so did the eunuchs.

We junior officers were much in awe of the dozen or so—to us, depressingly old—men who had fought with Darius from one end of the world to the other. I even met a senior officer who had actually known my father; unfortunately, he could not remember anything of interest to tell me about him. Darius’ brother Artanes commanded our small army. A dim figure, he later became a leper and was forced to live alone in the wilderness. It is said that lepers have great spiritual powers. Happily, I’ve not been close enough to one to find out.