The Etruscan (4 page)

“There is something wrong with them,” said Dorieus in disgust. “They are not prophetic.”

His words unconsciously revealed his desire to join me in the war against the Persians. With feigned reluctance I therefore said, “I myself have seen a replica of Hecataeus’ map of the world. Undoubtedly the Great King is a formidable opponent, for he rules a thousand nations from Egypt to India.”

“The stronger the opponent the more honorable the battle,” retorted Dorieus.

“I have nothing to fear,” I observed. “How could human weapons harm me when a thunderbolt failed to do so? I believe myself to be invulnerable. But it is different with you, so I will no longer try to persuade you to join me in an uncertain venture. The bones point west. Believe them.”

“Why don’t you go west with me?” he asked. “As you said, I am free, but my freedom is bleak unless I have a companion with whom to share it.”

“Both the bones and the priests indicated the west, but it is precisely because of that that I shall go east. I must prove to myself that omens and divine warnings cannot prevent my doing what I will.”

Dorieus laughed. “You are contradicting yourself.”

“You don’t understand,” I said. “I want to prove to myself that I cannot escape my fate.”

At that moment the temple servants came for Dorieus. He rose from the rock, his face alight, and ran toward the temple. I waited for him by the large sacrificial altar.

When he returned his head was bowed. “The Pythia has spoken and the priests have studied the omens. Sparta is threatened by a curse should I ever return. Therefore I must sail beyond the sea. They recommend that I go west, where any tyrant of a wealthy city would be happy to take me into his service. My grave will lie in the west, they said, and there too I will find undying fame.”

“Hence we shall sail east.” I smiled. “You are still young. Why should you unnecessarily hasten to your grave?”

On that very day we left for the coast, only to find that the sea was stormy and that the ships had ceased to sail. And so we undertook the journey by land, spending our nights in deserted shepherds’ shelters. After we had passed Megara we had to decide how best to reach lonia. I had friends in Athens among those who had participated in the expedition to Sardis, but because a conservative faction had gained power there the friends might not wish to be reminded of their past.

Corinth, on the other hand, was the most hospitable of Greek cities. From its two harbors ships sailed both east and west and even Phoenician vessels put in there freely. I had also heard that strangers were not shunned there.

“Let us go to Corinth,” I suggested. “There we will hear the freshest news from lonia and will be able to sail in the spring at the latest.”

Dorieus became glum. ‘‘We are friends, and as an Ionian you are more familiar with travel and cities than I. But as a Spartan I cannot follow another’s advice without protest.”

“Then let us toss the sheep’s bones once more.”

I drew the cardinal points on the sand according to the sun and indicated the positions of Athens and Corinth as well as I could. Dorieus tossed the bones and they indisputably pointed west.

Morosely he said, “Let us go to Corinth. But this is my decision and not yours.”

Because his will was stronger than mine, I confessed, “I am pampered by Ionian customs. My mind has been spoiled by the teachings of a sage who despised people. Whatever increases knowledge consumes the will. Hence let us obey your will and journey to Corinth.”

His face brightened, he smiled, ran and threw his javelin as far as he could in the direction of Corinth. But when we reached it we saw that it had struck a rotted piece of ship’s rail that had been washed up by the sea. We both felt the omen to be unfavorable although we said nothing and avoided each other’s eyes. Dorieus pulled loose the javelin and we set off in the direction of Corinth without a backward glance.

In Corinth a stranger is not compelled to stay with friends, for the city has inns where one can obtain food and lodgings. Nor is a stranger judged by his face, clothes or even the color of his skin, but solely by the weight of the bag in which he carries his money. I suspect that the majority of the city’s residents follow no honest trade but have as their sole profession the aiding of strangers to spend their money as rapidly as possible.

Upon our arrival we found many refugees from the Ionian cities. Most of them were wealthy people who, though they feared freedom and the will of the people, feared Persian vengeance even more. They were certain that reprisals awaited all the Ionian cities which had banished their tyrants, torn down the Persian buildings and replaced the ridge-stones of their walls. Many of the refugees were waiting for spring so that they might sail on the merchant vessels to the large Greek cities in Sicily or Italy and thus be as far from the Persians as possible.

“In the west is a greater Greece with rich cities and room to breathe,” they said. “The future lies in the West, while only destruction and ceaseless oppression lie in the East.”

But they had to admit that the uprising had spread as far as Cyprus, that Ionian ships ruled the sea, and that all the Ionian cities were again participating in the revolt.

With the arrival of spring we sailed to lonia on one of the first vessels.

In the war against the Persians I won fame as a man who laughed because he did not fear death. Dorieus for his part became famous for the sense of security provided by his leadership.

But when the Persians had blockaded Miletus by land, Dorieus said, “Although Miletus still protects the Ionian cities which lie behind its back, every Ionian here fears for his native city and that fear is responsible for the confusion around us. Besides, the Persians are stronger on land than we are. Our fleet, however, is still intact behind the Lade peninsula.”

Dorieus was now a bearded giant with a crest of plumes on his helmet and silver tracings on his shield. Looking around him he said, “This city with its wealth and its impregnable walls has become a trap for me. I am not accustomed to defending walls, for a Spartan’s shield is his only wall. Turms, my friend, let us leave Miletus. This city already smells of death!”

“Should we forego firm ground and choose a swaying deck for our battleground?” I asked. “After all, you hate the sea and your face pales when the ship rolls.”

But Dorieus was firm. “It is summer and the sea is calm. Besides, I am heavily armored and can fight on deck where the air is fresh. A vessel moves, walls do not. Let us go to Lade and look around.”

We let ourselves be rowed to Lade. It was easy, since boats continually plied the waters between the city and the peninsula. Provisions, fruit and wine were regularly brought to the fleet and the sailors in turn ceaselessly visited the golden city.

At Lade we saw innumerable warships from all the Ionian cities, the largest being those from Miletus. Daily the vessels streamed out through the narrow channel to the open sea where they arranged themselves in formation, oarblades gleaming in the sunlight. Then, increasing their speed until the water foamed, they practiced ramming enemy ships with their huge underwater metallic heads.

By far the greater number of ships, however, were beached along the shores of the island where their crews had spread out sails to protect themselves from the sun. The entire island echoed with the cries of peddlers, the brawling of wine-drinkers, the arguments of the commanders, and the usual Greek chatter. But many of the men slept through the noise in sheer exhaustion.

Dorieus talked to several sailors. “Why are you lying here, drinking wine, when the Persians’ fleet is approaching? They are said to have as many as three or four hundred warships.”

“Let us hope that they have a thousand,” replied the men, “so that this dreary war will soon be over. We are free lonians, skilled on land and even more skilled at sea, where the Persians have never yet

bested us.”

But having boasted a while, the men began to complain. “We are worried only about our ambitious and war-mad commanders who compel us to row back and forth in the heat of midday and treat us more like slaves than the Persians would. Our hands are full of blisters and the skin is peeling from our faces.”

They showed us their hands which were in truth blistered and torn, for these men were city dwellers who had led sheltered lives at their various trades. They felt that it was senseless to row back and forth

and exhaust the crews.

“So,” they said, “we have chosen new and wiser commanders. Now we are resting and gathering our strength so that we will be like lions

when the Persians attack.”

As the evening grew cool and the calm surface of the sea turned wine-colored, the last five vessels came towards their camp site on the island. They were only penteconters, but their fifty oars rose and fell, rowed and backed water as smoothly and rhythmically as though a single man had been at the sweeps.

Dorieus looked upon them favorably. “Let us find out from which city these vessels come and who their commander is.”

When the oars had been pulled in, the rowers jumped into the water to beach the galleys. At the same time some exhausted men were tossed overboard and sufficiently revived in the water so that they could crawl to shore, where they collapsed on the sands. A few would have drowned had not their companions dragged them to safety. The galleys bore no decorations or figures of deities, but they were strong, narrow and seaworthy, and stank of tar and pitch.

We waited until the campfires had been lighted. When those still on the shore caught the smell of porridge and root vegetables, bread and oil, they dragged themselves towards the pots. Then we joined the men and asked their identity.

“We are poor and humble men from Phocaea,” they replied, “and our commander is Dionysius, a brutal and merciless man whom we would kill if we dared.”

But as they spoke they laughed, and the food tasted good to them even though it was not rich like that served on the ships of Miletus. They pointed out their commander who in appearance was no different from them, merely a large, bearded and very dirty man.

Dorieus went to him, clanking his leg guards, waving the plumes on his helmet and flashing his silver-ornamented shield.

“Dionysius, commander of the Phocaean ships, hire me and my friend to fight the Persians with you.”

Dionysius roared with laughter. “If I had the money I would certainly hire you to be my ship’s emblem, for your bold appearance would be enough to frighten the Persians. I myself have only a leather helmet and breastplate and I do not fight for money but for my city’s and my own glory. It is true that, in addition to glory, I hope to seize a few Persian ships for their loot. Otherwise my men will kill me and throw me overboard, which they threaten to do daily.”

“Don’t anger my friend,” I said. “He is slow to laughter. Nowadays a heavily armored marine is paid five and even ten drachmas a day.”

Dionysius retorted, “I also am slow to laughter, perhaps even more so than your friend. But these days I have learned to laugh readily. More Persian gold is circulating in this camp than I would have believed possible. We drink and gorge ourselves, dance and sing, boast and argue, and even I, a gruff man, have learned to amuse my men. But the craziest thing I have yet heard is that you two apparently experienced warriors are volunteering to join my forces although I have neither striped sails nor bracelets on my arms.”

“We are looking at the matter as soldiers,” said Dorieus. “With or without wages we would rather fight on a vessel whose oars obey the wishes of the commander than serve on a ship whose crew willfully chooses its own leaders. I am not familiar with naval warfare, but on the basis of what I have seen at Lade today you are the only true sailor.”

Dionysius listened and took a liking to us. Dorieus and I both had our pay and some Persian gold with which we bought several armfuls of sacrificial meat from Poseidon’s altar for the crew, as well as
some-wine,
much to Dionysius’ amazement.

“We are Phocaeans,” he told us that night, “and as such we live and die on the sea. Our forefathers established a colony in Massilia, far beyond the western sea. Our fathers learned the art of naval warfare while fighting the Tyrrhenians in the west, but did not return to teach us their skill. Thus we have had to learn for ourselves.”

To prove his point he suddenly ordered the alert to be blown on the conchs. The men, awakened from their deep sleep, stumbled to the ships and in the darkness untied the masts, raised and wedged them into place and unfurled the sails before I had time to clamber onto the deck. Despite their speed Dionysius flailed at them with a length of rope, cursed and roared and called them snails.

The din awakened all the other camps on the island, alerts were sounded and the rumor spread that the Persians were coming. Many wept in fear and attempted to conceal themselves in the bushes. The commanders shouted orders in vain and the confusion on the island was even greater than it had been during the day. When it became known that Dionysius had blown on the conchs merely to train his men to act in the darkness, the commanders came at us with bared weapons and threats to kill us if we again disturbed their sleep. But Dionysius’ men ran toward them with taut ropes over which they stumbled, losing their shields and swords. Had not the men been so sleepy, a full war might have broken out among the lonians.

Naval warfare is merciless warfare and no land battle can be compared to it. Having experienced it, I will not speak too harshly of the ships of Miletus and its allies, for they were undeniably excellent and their crews fearless. After they had grumbled a while the men rowed out to sea and exhausted themselves at the oars. Nothing is more dangerous than a sweep in the hands of an inexperienced man, for it can strike his head or snap his ribs. I know it well, for Dionysius thrust an oar into my hand and it took the skin off my palms within a day.

Miletus sent out target vessels filled with logs and twigs that kept them afloat despite the gashes in their sides. But many commanders refused to attack the targets, fearing that their bronze rams would be twisted, their oars would snap and the galleys would burst at the seams.