CHAPTER ONE (a semi-important history and background)
The two riders appeared to be jockeying for position as they sped into the small village. The hooves of their mounts chewed up and spit out in a rhythmic rain the soggy pieces of road they traversed. Both were as water soaked as the tattered road that raced past below them. A dry inn and a pint of drink lured them to not slacken the pace in the slightest. Night had already breathed it’s darkness into the air, making cold colder and wet wetter still. The dim light of their desired haven beckoned to them from a coupe of hundred yards up the hill they now found positioned between them and rest.
The stables, generous nomenclature for the thatch and mud mixture that pretended to be walls, were only half occupied, meaning in all likelihood that there would be plenty of room and service in the inn. It also meant in all likelihood that the food probably hovered around the red zone on a toxicity chart.
A young fellow took their horses and the coin they threw him as assurance for worthy treatment of the eight legs that had carried them so diligently since before dawn. The tension of arriving had now lifted, and was being smuggled away by exhaustion. A quick meal, some beverage of the local industry, and then hopefully a few hours of surrendered rest, were the only items on their agendas. Tomorrow promised to be today’s twin. At their pace, there would be four days before the form of Shushan would chisel its remarkable silhouette into the austere horizon before them.
The damp of outside had made its way to the interior of the inn. The fire at one end of the large room worked valiantly to counteract the outside elements that ferreted their way inside, but the smoke it contributed seemed more at league with the humid air than at war. It created a semi-breathable stock of air that only ceased to be annoying after two pints of ale. However tonight, due to their fatigue, one pint smoothed the frayed edges of their rude surroundings.
A young girl, rather squat and homely, had served them the meal of the day. It was the usual form of black bread and stew. The bread was okay and the stew wasn’t. Mediocre as it was, it did a respectfully restorative work on their senses. After eating, they leaned forward on wooden benches into the warmth of the fire. The heat slowly beguiled them into releasing the rigors of the day’s ride.
“So, what are you about gentlemen?” queried a tall man who looked to be from the coastal lands. He had the nose of the Phoenicians and the darting eyes which so characterized merchants of that country.
“We are in service to the King the Noble Xerxes.” came the reply.
“Well my guess would be couriers,” the first continued, “for you ride as men under assignment.”
“And how would that be sir, though I will admit that you are correct in your observation?”
“You smell of urgency, your clothes are of those in service, and your mounts are of a military quality, though you yourselves seem civilian.”
“Well your powers of observation are first class, for you opened us like a scroll,” laughed the more talkative of the two wayfarers.
“Actually, we are on journey to Shushan in connection with events which shall shortly take place in that same place.”
The tall man smiled amiably and said “I am a merchant of Phoenicia and have traveled much in these days. I have run into several of the king’s couriers recently and know that there are great plans in the capitol of the empire in the not too distant future. As a very fact, there are those of my own province who even now are preparing journey to the great city itself.”
“Well it’s no secret now that the king is to have a celebration such as has never been witnessed before. The preparations in the palace defy description and most would think us liars if we were to publish what we have seen.”
The larger of couriers pulled out a curious pipe of sorts, into which he stirred some dried leaf and lit with an ember from the fire. A pleasant aroma performed an acceptable exorcism on the “overly used” condition of the the air.
“But Mr. Courier, you and I both know that great men don’t do great things without great purposes and ends in mind”…. the Phoenician’s voice trailed and rose just enough to ask a question without using words.
The courier gazed back through a ring of exhaled smoke and responded in kind: “Well, its Greek to me my friend.” The implication was understood by all three.
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It was no great secret that the Persian monarchs were possessed by a historic itch. As vast as their empire was, stretching from the confines of Shushan, its capitol, to far-flung limits, the Greek apple held constant allurement to their conquest-thirsty ambitions. It had been ten years since Darius, Xerxes’ father, had lost his bid to add the Greeks to his string of trophy states that he had been collecting as precious stones for some ornate vanity. The defeat had been intolerable. That had been in 490 BC, though it would take a little more than 490 years until they figured out what the ‘BC’ was all about. Imagine saying ‘BC’ all those years and never knowing why!
It had happened in a place called Marathon. Darius’ advisors had picked this plain on the east coast of Attica as the perfect disembarking and subsequent invasion point for Greece. This would leave them only twenty plus miles to Athens. Their sources had been adamant that the Greeks had approximately 9000 men; ten at best. In the face of the 60,000 they were offloading, there could be no significant resistance. Most felt the Greeks would offer a pretense at battle, but then quickly evacuate across the strait towards Corinth, leaving Athens for immediate possession.
The Greeks had taken up a position that overlooked the plain, such that every Persian movement was under scrutiny. This fact could most probably have been picked up by a reconnaissance detail if the Persians had bothered to dispatch one, but for what? There was no real threat, the ball was in their court, and they were going to serve up something that would give the famous Greek philosophers topics for debate ad nauseam. What had not been factored into the equation was that the Greeks, in a rare display of pragmatism, fully realized the threat that was forming in their living room. It was neither a time for hemlock tea, nor a round of Mars Hill opinion trading.
The fury of the attack was devastating. The Persian center had held, but the wings had collapsed. Instead of relaxing, the Greek flanks threw themselves at the heart of their numerically superior foes and literally drove them back into the sea. The missing in “not so much action”, tallied more than 5000 Persians who did not sail home. The Greeks, it was painfully estimated, had lost no more than a couple of hundred. So, the lunge for the hub of Mediterranean life failed miserably.
Darius had to content himself with the possession of the Greek Asiatic colony cities. Those were nice acquisitions in themselves, but did nothing to assuage wounded royal self-importance.
Other problems arose as result of the humiliation: the Egyptians had to be given a good dose of Persian wrath, causing them to realize that Greek good fortune was not necessarily contagious. The long range effect of all this was that Darius went home to entertain himself on the home front and postpone his Mediterranean holiday for the off season when the prices were not so high. That vacation would never come into focus for him. However, he had passed on his fever to his son Xerxes. It took ten years for this inherited egg of ‘destiny’ to hatch, but in 480 Xerxes had his passport and visa in order and was busy making travel arrangements.
Being the sociable type, he wanted to take delegations from all of his 127 provinces, or ’satrapies’ as they were called at the time. Of course, a cruise of this magnitude was wont to have an introductory holiday funfest to sell all of the clients. In accordance, the sealed gilt-edged envelopes had been delivered to all corners of the sprawling kingdom, India to Ethiopia. A week in beautiful Shushan; free drinks; all expenses paid; free drinks; enjoy the incomparable beauty of the palace of the noble Xerxes; free drinks; specialized activities for the wives; and finally, to clinch attendance, free drinks.
Despite the exaggerated preparations and glitz, all present at the extravaganza would know the real intent: Xerxes was set on recovering the Persian pride that had slipped through his father’s fingers and fallen somewhere on the sands of Marathon. All those under the shadow Shushan would be expected to join in combing the beaches of the Attican shoreline until the lost item was recovered. Little did the Persian prince know that his efforts would only redeem his father’s fumblings with a ‘left handed’ redemption: his own up and coming debacle would, in comparison, make his father’s look like an insignificant “we all have those kind of days” historical happenstance.
This page has the following sub pages.
