Chapter Three

CHAPTER THREE (almost done with the history)

Aristodemus forced his gaze to encompass the far corner of the vineyard. Hot nails of pain bore into parts of his head that he felt certain could have nothing to do with the sense of sight. Tears began to seep across his cheeks as he fought back the longing to close his eyes once again. He fought on, partly because he hoped somehow he could discipline himself past this, and also because he knew very well that relief was a lying seductress who only set him up for more pain in the darkness. He had spent days and torturous nights see-sawing back and forth between these two varieties of grief. There was hope, however. Three days had now passed without streaks of blood being mixed with his involuntary tears. And, though nigh to unbearable, this was the first day he could open his eyes during daylight hours, though only for a brief moment. Some of the other Greek soldiers had assured him that they knew this affliction on first name basis, and that it would pass in its own sweet time leaving no lasting damage. They even had some name for it that had something to do with a mother-in-law’s smile.
In our chronology it was still 480 years before love would suit up in flesh and bone. For the Greeks, like Aristodemus, life was teetering on the edge of time, and the financial counselors in Vegas were betting on a KO in the first. The dignity of life at its best was within dangerous reach of all that was ignoble and savage; in general, the Persian; specifically, Ahasuerus or Xerxes as he was also called. Though in all fairness, the Greek owed some debt to this King who held sway from India to Ethiopia. As the state pen of Herodotus would later spin: “For what nation did Xerxes not lead out of Asia against Hellas? And what water was not exhausted, being drunk by his host…?”. Confronted by such, the Greeks did the impossible: they united. If the capacity for shock were not drained dry by the momentous effort of Xerxes, the witnessing of Spartan hand and Athenian hand on the same plow would have done so. These two small city-states were only deterred from their addictive wranglings when Xerxes was so close that his breath fogged their glasses, and even then it was with great reluctance that they tore themselves from their ways. Nothing less than the salivating Persian would have sobered the two punch-drunk boxers. And there was reason for sobriety.
The Greeks had lost several Asian colonies already to the eastern monarchs. These had been precious fruitful sources for the troubled topography of the “agriculturally challenged” Greece and its ever-present need to import. Now these fruits flowed east instead of west. Ten years before, the ambitious father of Xerxes, Darius, had come very close to adding the mother country to her abducted daughter colonies. If it had not been for Athenian courage, a simultaneous Egyptian rebellion and a cooperative joint effort between sea and weather, European history would read quite differently, not to mention the disappearance of several delis from New York City.
This time it would be different. Xerxes was moving very carefully to assure that this historical stain might be blotted from the family legacy. Six months of “free lunches”, plenty of wine, with enough perks for the most problematical potentates and their insatiable egos. Ice the cake with the spoils of Greece and the fail-safe numerical advantage of the combined Persian force, and it was an irresistible package. So, one by one, all 127 of the “powers that were” signed on to the westward expansion theory.
Now it’s a little hard to keep a secret of this magnitude, so, undoubtedly the Greek’s early warning system was functioning. And most certainly they would have taken painstaking measures at defense, if they hadn’t been involved in something so much more important: arguing. So much so, that when Eretria, first city state east, fell and the Persians headed towards Athens, someone came up with the radical idea that this might be classified as aggression. In an act of unheralded humility, all debate was put on hold and armies were hastily mustered.
The Spartans were famous for standing at attention even in their sleep, which took place from 2 am to 2:04 am each day (and this with only one eye closed just in case Cato lurked around the corner). Their finest hour lay before them in the small pass of Thermopolae. After some skirmishes on the planes the Greeks sought higher ground. The natural defense point was this narrow mountain pass. Here the numerical difference was considerably modified by geography. Thermopolae was the doorway to the heart of Greece, and only a few Persians could come through the door at one time. Here it was that the 300 Spartans, and 1100 others who, if named, would only detract from Spartan glory, withstood the entire Persian onslaught.
They would undoubtedly still be there splitting the concessionary profits of this classic military superbowl if intrigue had not found its way into the mix. The belief commonly held is that some peasant eventually was convinced to reveal a little known alternate route, thus enabling the Persians to finally come through the kitchen door (having written this a couple of years ago, I have since learned that the real betrayal came from some computer graphics techs who were in the area putting together their version of this story).
The Spartans went the distance with no hope of overtime. Except two: two Spartans were
actually carried away from the battle by other retreating Greek forces.
One of them was our friend Aristodemus. The other, nameless to history, commanded his helot (slave) to carry him back to the front line, where he promptly, though not able to walk unassisted due to sickness, proceeded forward into his death. Aristodemus was afflicted by an eye infection that rendered him essentially blind. When brought back to home turf, he acquired a nickname: Trestus, meaning ‘the one who retreated’. The Spartans were not in point of fact known for their compassionate life views. In comparison, our politically conservative talk radio hosts would seem to be overdosed on estrogen. The public eye apparently viewed Aristodemus rather narrowly: he went to the battle and came back without winning or dying, therefore, he retreated. How could that be confusing? “Vini, vidi, vanished.” For the Spartan mind of Aristodemus, life-purpose had congealed into something very simple: die a death that would lift disgrace. Survival occupied a low position on life’s little list of priorities. Legend placed its hand on the yet unwritten Bible and swore that it took him awhile to accomplish his purpose, but eventually succeeded in both distinguishing and extinguishing his candle amongst men. Reckless living at its finest.

The highly informative and even more highly embellished narrative I just laid on you was for the sole purpose of letting us have a sense of what Xerxes faced when arriving at the office of Greek Immigration Services.
I have read that the most dangerous assignment for a policeman is that of domestic violence. Husbands and wives will usually stop killing each other just long enough to send an officer to eternal retirement before resuming their pastime. Poor Xerxes stepped into the wrong squabble!
Geography, oceanography, and meteorology had a brief tête-à-tête also to provide some surprises for the pregnant confidence of the Persian Navy. Seems that they didn’t have similar varieties of tricky inlets, outlets, let downs, and let’s scats, over on the Asia side. The lighter Greek vessels were dancing around familiar islands and channels, hiding in coves and bays and generally kicking Persian pride in the aft. If that wasn’t frustrating enough, the weather put on a show that would have supplied the Weather Channel with 5” headlines for a week. As the battle turned toward the Greeks lighter faster ships, some of the conscripted ships and crews from the Asiatic Greek colonies suddenly began to remember their roots, cried ‘mama’, and turned on their Persian masters.
All of this was seen by wanna-be-world-order-architect, Xerxes, from a portable throne (not what you’re thinking) that was lugged all the way from home for special viewings. From some high vantage point on the Greek mainland, Mr. X watched his ships get routed, rammed, and captured: the original slam and ‘dunk’. His sailors lamentably had been to busy making rugs for export and missed all of those swimming lessons. Those who did not drown were captured. It was not history’s worst naval upset, but he would hold the record for a couple of thousand years until Francis Drake’s little number on the Spanish Armada.
Irked Xerxes hollered ‘Nuf’ and began heading home. It was a long journey home, during which he decided his gifts lay in some other area. One of his counselors had been telling him that the greater challenge lay in getting the already massive kingdom into a better cohesion instead of trying to add more. He had ignored this Agagite’s words, but now they were beginning to make a little more sense to him. Hey, 127 provinces was upper end in anybody’s book. The more he mulled over perspectives, the more he began to see that the westward expansion thing had been more of an assumed kingly activity as in “hey I’m a king; therefore I conquer, rape, pillage and plunder.” Now his thoughts turned to loftier ideals. In actuality his thoughts did not dwell on the fineries and dignity of imperialism for an extended time. In fact, one issue began to goad him more that any other. He had no wife. Well, no wife that could meet him at the door after a long hard day at the Greek games, and a bad day at that. No wife who so held his attentions in a way that could soften the frayed edges of the Mediterranean escapade. The worst part of this unscratchable itch was that he had, as in past tense, exactly such a wife. A woman of incomparable beauty and attraction: Vashti. The thought of her pushed the desire level through the roof, but it was immediately and painfully doused by an emotional bitterness rivaling his present political anguish.
Here’s his story, sad but true,
About a girl that he once knew……

This page has the following sub pages.

• Chapter Four