Creation (47 page)

“Demaratus, son of Ariston.” Lais’ voice was reverent. “King of Sparta.”

“King no longer. Son of Ariston no longer. Thanks to Delphi.”

“The prophetess has been removed.” Lais sounded as if she herself had been responsible for the change.

“Too late for me.”

At the time I had not the slightest notion what they were talking about. Later I came to know altogether too much about the so-called Spartan Scandal—a somewhat inapposite title when one considers how many scandals there are in Sparta every year, usually involving bribed officials. Of all the Greeks, the Spartans are the most archer-mad.

The Spartan constitution requires not one but two kings, a stupid arrangement. Demaratus fell out with the other king, Cleomenes, who bribed the prophetess at Delphi to say that Demaratus was not the son of Ariston. Once Demaratus had been
proved
illegitimate, he was king no longer. Hippias had told us that day at Darius’ hunting lodge that this would happen; but Hippias had not been believed. The Great King did not think even the Delphi oracle could prove who had sired whom so many years after the act. But the oracle prevailed, and like every other discredited Greek king or tyrant or general, Demaratus promptly came up to Susa, where Darius took him in. Demaratus was given lands in The Troad, and made a general.

We exchanged the usual civilities. Then with a sense of having lived through all of this before with Histiaeus, I said, “You are now trying to persuade the Great King to attack Athens in the spring. When Athens falls, will you want the Great King to conquer Sparta, too?”

“Only Athens,” said Demaratus. I noticed that the cold blue eyes were the same color as the glazed blue tiles of the Ishtar Gate just opposite us. “The Spartan army is. stronger than the Persian army.”

“No army is stronger than the Great King’s!” Lais said nervously.

“Except Sparta’s,” said Demaratus. “That is a fact.” I admired the ex-king’s coolness. I did not admire his feet. He wore open sandals that revealed toes as black as a Babylonian peasant’s. Trying to look at neither feet nor hair, I ended by staring at Demaratus’ beard. It was so thick with old dust that it looked to be made of baked clay.

“Without allies, Sparta is vulnerable,” I said. “Sparta depends on the Athenian fleet. But if Athens falls ...” I did not state the obvious.

Demaratus gave me a murderous look. Then, irritably, he pushed back the long Persian sleeves. “Eretria, Euboea and Athens. Those are the Great King’s targets for the coming year. The matter of Sparta is something else, and will be settled by Spartans. Meanwhile, Mardonius will lead the army again.”

Lais looked at me as if I should be pleased. I looked at her in order to remind her that our faction was
not
that of Mardonius and the Greeks but of Xerxes and Atossa.

“Are you certain?” But the question that I put to Demaratus was answered by Lais.

“No,” she said. “The physicians say that he’ll never walk again.”

“Mardonius is the Great King’s best general.” Demaratus was flat. “If he has to, he can lead the expedition in a litter. But he won’t have to. I’ve seen the leg. It will heal.”

“If it doesn’t”—and Lais looked suddenly grave and sibylline—“there is no reason why a Spartan king could not lead the army.”

Demaratus’ black toes clenched like two fists. I looked away. “There is a very good reason why I could not lead the army.” The voice was oddly mild. “I am not Persian—yet.”

Later that day Lais and I had a furious quarrel. I told her that the last thing in the world “you and I should want is another Greek expedition.”

“
Our
future is in the west,” Lais proclaimed. “Let Mardonius outshine Xerxes for a year or two. What difference will it make? Xerxes is still going to be Great King one day, and when he is, thanks to Mardonius or Demaratus, he will be the lord of all the Greeks from Sigeum to Sicily, and sea lord, too.”

Lais and I were now on different sides. In fact, after that day we did not speak to each other again for several years. Since I supported Xerxes, I did my best to bend Persian policy to the east, while Lais continued to receive all the Greeks at court in order to support their numerous causes. Yet she kept warm her friendship with Atossa. Years later, when Lais and I were on better terms, she told me how she had managed to stay in with both factions.

“I convinced Atossa that I was poisoning Mardonius. Very slowly, of course, so that when he died everyone would blame his death on the leg that wouldn’t heal.”

“But what did Atossa think when Mardonius didn’t die?”

“After he was replaced as general, I said to her, ‘What’s the point to killing him?’ and she agreed that there was none. So I stopped the so-called poisoning.”

Shortly after my meeting with Demaratus I was received by Atossa, who deplored the fact that I had turned on Lais; “After all, your mother saved your life.”

“
You
saved my life, Great Queen.”

“True. But I did it for Lais. How I hate this city.” Although the third house of the harem of Xerxes’ palace was more sumptuous than its equivalent at Susa, Atossa complained constantly of the heat, the noise, the Babylonians—not that she ever saw any Babylonians other than those who had always been at court.

“Naturally, I am pleased with you.” Atossa’s speech had indeed been impaired by the recent loss of several crucial teeth. She compensated for this disability by pursing and smacking her enameled lips in a most distracting way.

“I know that you do what you do for Xerxes. I know that you quarreled with your mother about the Greeks and Mardonius. Mardonius—” She checked herself. I suspect now that she was tempted to tell me that her brilliant nephew Mardonius would soon be dead, thanks to Lais. But if that was the moment’s temptation, she did not yield to it. Instead, Atossa kicked at the old tattered rug with one bright silver shoe. Wherever she went, the old rug traveled with her. I think that she was superstitious about it. I know that I was.

Atossa addressed the rug. “They say that Mardonius will not be able to take the field this spring.” Then she looked straight at me. “Tell me about India.”

I told her about India.

The old eyes shone with greed. “Rich, rich!” she kept repeating.

“And easily gained,” I said. “By Xerxes.”

“He cannot be risked.” Atossa was firm.

“He must prove that he can lead the armies before the Great King dies.”

“Too dangerous. Especially now. In these times. We are all so old. Oh, the tomb!” Because of the impairment to her speech, the queen was particularly hard to follow when she shifted too quickly the subject.

I looked at her dully.

“The tomb. The tomb of Darius.” She arranged her lips carefully about each syllable. “It’s enraging.”

“The moon symbol?” The devil symbol decorates the façade of Darius’ tomb, as a balance to the Wise Lord’s sun. Hystaspes had died at the tomb—in a rage at the blasphemy. Hystaspes is now
in
the tomb; and the moon symbol is still on the façade.

“That is as it should be.” Atossa detached a flower from the garland about her neck and threw it at the image of Anahita in the corner. “The moon is
her
symbol, and I would not lie under any other. No, something else has happened. There is room for only twelve of us in the tomb. Old Hystaspes and two of Darius’ brothers are already there on one shelf. Then Darius and I and my sister Artystone will occupy another shelf, while six of the nephews are to fill the remaining two shelves. It was all worked out by Darius and me. Now, only this morning, Darius has assigned the place that was to have gone to young Artaphrenes to Parmys. To Parmys, of all people! She died last week, by the way. Most painfully, I’m told!”

Atossa pressed a thin yellow hand against the spot where her breast had been. “Yes, the same sickness. But I had Democedes. And survived. She had only Egyptians. And died, most painfully. They say that at the end she weighed less than a year-old child.” This pleasurable reverie was swiftly dispelled by the thought of Parmys “with us in that rock chamber for all eternity. Oh, I tell you it is intolerable! And mysterious. Of course, there is gossip that—But the point is,
why
has he done the unthinkable? Except to annoy me, which he has succeeded in doing. I cannot bear to think that for all eternity I must lie beside the daughter of a murderer and a traitor and an impostor.”

I must say that I had forgotten all about Parmys, the daughter of the Magian usurper Gaumata. Lais had told me how astonished the court had been when Darius announced that he intended to marry her. They were even more mystified by his explanation: “Impostor or not, the Magian was Great King for a year. Therefore, his daughter Parmys is the daughter of a Great King of Persia. Therefore, it is suitable that she be my wife.”

“You must promise me in the name of Anahita—well, of the Wise Lord—that when Darius is dead and I am dead you will persuade Xerxes to remove that dreadful woman from the tomb. Swear!”

As I swore, Atossa regarded me with a suspicious eye. “If you break your oath, there is nothing that I will be able to do about it
in the flesh
.
But the goddess is strong. The goddess is everywhere.” Atossa’s red eyes glared at me.

“I shall do what I can. But surely a word from you to Xerxes—”

“He has received that word. But he is forgetful. He is also apt to be influenced by other considerations.” She did not elaborate. “So I count on you. On you alone.”

Atossa had other complaints. She seldom saw Xerxes. When the court was at Susa or Ecbatana, he was either at Babylon or Persepolis. “He has a mania for building.” Atossa frowned. “So did my father, of course. But it is a very expensive hobby, as he discovered. And endless.”

Over the years, I was to watch Xerxes create at Persepolis the most beautiful complex of unfinished buildings in the world. When Callias came to Persia for the peace negotiations, I took him to Persepolis. Elpinice tells me that he was so awed by what Xerxes had built that he ordered one of his slaves to make drawings of the principal buildings. At this very moment, the Athenians are busily imitating Xerxes’ work. Fortunately, I have seen the originals. Fortunately, I shall never see Phidias’ crude copies.

Atossa admitted to a certain loneliness, and isolation. “I have Lais, of course. But she is deranged by Greek politics. Ordinarily I’m perfectly content with the eunuchs. After all, they’ve been my eyes, my ears, my hands ever since I was a child. But this new crop isn’t at all like the old. They are either too much like women or too much like men. I don’t know what’s gone wrong. In my father’s time, they were perfectly balanced and absolutely devoted. They knew what you wanted without being told. Now they are arrogant and dull and careless, and both rooms of the chancellery are a shambles. Nothing gets done properly. I think it’s all those Greeks from Samos. They’re very good-looking, of course. Even intelligent. But they don’t make good eunuchs. They don’t make good anything at all, except troublemakers. You know that Lais is conniving again.”

“Yes. I’ve met the king of Sparta.”

“In the harem, Lais is known as the queen of Greece. No, I don’t mind. If it weren’t for her, I’d never know what those troublesome people are up to.”

“What
are
they up to?” On serious matters I asked Atossa direct questions, to which she sometimes gave direct answers.

“They want a spring offensive. Athens is to be destroyed, and so on. The whole thing is absolutely useless, but Hippias—”

“Always Hippias.”

“Don’t interrupt.”

“I was echoing, Great Queen.”

“Don’t echo. Hippias has convinced Darius—again—that the Athenians want him back as tyrant. Darius is getting old.” Unlike Lais, Atossa did not whisper treason. She shouted it, knowing that the secret service would repeat every word to Darius. Thus they communicated with each other. Not until after Darius’ death did I learn why she did not fear him; why he feared her.

“Darius is muddled. He actually thinks that Athens wants to restore the tyrants now that all the other Greek cities have become democracies.”

I was startled. “But surely the Ionian cities are—”

“—are all democracies now. The tyrants are gone, every last one of them. Thanks to Mardonius. At first, Darius was furious. But then he realized how clever Mardonius was.” Atossa’s eyes were like dusty enamel by torchlight. “Mardonius
is
clever. Too clever, I sometimes think. Anyway, as he went from city to city, he realized that the tyrants were unpopular because they were loyal to Persia.”

“An excellent reason for retaining them.”

“So I would have thought. But Mardonius is subtler than we. He made it a point to meet the leading Greek merchants. You know, the sort of people who control the rabble when it gets together and starts voting. Then, suddenly, in the Great King’s name, Mardonius dismissed the tyrants. Just like that. Now he’s the hero of the Ionian democracies. Breath-taking, really.”

“Although the tyrants are gone, I’m sure that Mardonius left a queen in Halicarnassus.” This was the sort of thing that amused Atossa.

“Oh, yes. Artemisia is still queen. She is also a beautiful widow.”

“Actually, she’s a rather plain widow.”

“All queens are to be regarded as beautiful,” said Atossa firmly. “Except by their husbands. Anyway, now, thanks to Mardonius, Persia is in the ridiculous position of being the sponsor of democracy in the Ionian cities while trying to overthrow the Athenian democracy in order to restore the tyranny.”

“Mardonius is very bold.”

“In my father’s time, he would have been flayed alive at the palace gate for having taken upon himself the Great King’s prerogative. But this is another time, as I often remind myself.” Atossa gave one of her remaining teeth an experimental tap and winced with pain. “It’s lucky for Mardonius that he conquered Thrace and Macedonia. Otherwise Darius might have been very angry with him. As it is, Darius listens to Mardonius, and only to him. This season, anyway. And that means that there will be another Greek campaign, with or without Mardonius. Unless ... Tell me more about India.”

Atossa was a highly practical and realistic politician. She knew that, sooner or later, Xerxes must prove himself in war, and in the light of Mardonius’ victories, sooner was better. Although Atossa had no fear of Xerxes’ failing to win battles—was he not Cyrus’ grandson?—she feared that he might be murdered by the Gobryas faction. She also knew that it is far easier to kill a commander in the field than to kill a well-guarded prince at a court.