Chapter 8: Gifts for the Gods

by Astyages T2

The baggage-train was a dazzling sight; a dozen ox-drawn wagons, piled high with all kinds of valuable gifts, including many items made of gold, silver and purple, not only for the Pythoness herself, but also for her scribes and priestesses and even for all the people of Delphi. This colourful caravan was escorted into the broad courtyard of the Temple of the Oracle by a pair of temple guards and the herald whom Croesus had sent to Delphi to put the king’s questions to the oracle.

Seeing such a huge and wealth-laden baggage-train, the Pythoness realised immediately that Croesus was evidently hoping to purchase the favour of the gods by such lavish gifts. Mortal humans are so stupid in their conception of the gods, she thought to herself; as if they could be bought! The minds of the gods could be known – at least partially; that much she knew from her own personal experience; but they most certainly could not be bought!

Not that this attitude was uncommon, as the Pythoness had realized a long, long time ago; indeed, she knew that most people felt this way; and that her own thoughts on the nature of the gods were quite exceptional, not to say unique and these, her deepest and most private thoughts, she had long ago learned to keep to herself. Indeed, very early in her training she had realized that virtually all of the people, noble or commoner, who came to inquire of the oracle, were trying one way or another to purchase the gods’ favour for their own purposes; and they did not like to be told that this was impossible.

Although personally she knew perfectly well that such an attitude was both foolish and superstitious, the Pythoness felt not contempt, but rather compassion for those who came to inquire of the oracle. She realized that, superstitious or not, in such a harsh, unpredictable and uncontrollable world, it was not only understandable, but perhaps even inevitable that mortal humans should thus try to influence the actions of their gods; it made them feel a little less insecure to imagine that they actually had some chance to control their destiny.

As the bodily vehicle through which the oracle gave voice to its often highly enigmatic and occasionally impenetrably cryptic prognostications; the Pythoness would stand with her arms outstretched to receive the god, completely entranced as the spirit took possession of her, right on the very edge of the precipice over the bottomless pit in which dwelt the god.

It really was, she thought with amusement, a marvellous piece of theatre; and after a lifetime of training for the role, her performances never failed to impress. Speaking in the strange and incomprehensible tongue of the gods she would deliver the oracle’s response to the enquirers’ questions. These incomprehensible words, which came into her head directly from the very minds of the gods themselves, were then interpreted by one of the other entranced, priestesses and then written down on a small scroll of papyrus; finally the oracle’s miraculous pronouncement was given to the often dumbfounded inquirer.

The Pythoness’ own knowledge of the oracle was thus unique. Until her soul passed back into the void, when she would by replaced by another Pythoness who was even now training for the position, no-one else, she knew, would ever understand how intimate this relationship was; infinitely more intimate than any merely physical or corporeal union; psyche to psyche; mind to mind and soul to soul; with no physical sensation at all, only a spiritual awareness so deep that, as soon as any question was asked of her, its answer sprang directly into her consciousness.

She knew with absolute certainty that these were not her own thoughts, but the thoughts of the god; for in that instant, in the deepest ecstasies of her trance, her mind and the mind of the god met and were as one. It was the depth of this spiritual perception which alone enabled her to find in her heart the compassion she needed to ignore the greed and stupidity of almost all who came to her seeking her advice; and to phrase her answers in just such a way as would lead them into the best course of action in order to resolve their particular problem; or at the very least, to their spiritual advancement, in those all too frequent cases where what was wished for was not possible.

But it was only natural for mortal humans, she thought, to thus attempt to control the very gods themselves; after all, since they themselves were all too often influenced by just such trivial inducements as fame, power, material wealth or physical pleasures and comforts, it was perfectly natural for them to assume that the gods, too, could be swayed by such things, imagining the nature of men and the gods to be the same. What humanity didn’t seem to realize, however, was that the nature of the gods was vastly different from anything their mortal minds could possibly perceive; and that, from the perspective of the gods, nature was what humanity was put upon the Earth to rise above, although pitifully few of them ever rose to the challenge.

The Pythoness knew with absolute certainty that such trivial things as trinkets and baubles, more precious than life itself to mortal men, were meaningless to the gods. At some level, she knew, all ‘spirits’ were one; one Great Spirit, or ‘God’. But on earth the various and infinite aspects of this Spirit; this ‘God’, was, at least in appearance, separated and divided into the myriad forms of creation and the various natural and supernatural agencies which eternally govern the physical world; divided into both gods who both control and embody all natural phenomena; and the spirits of individual humans; who were invariably completely deceived by the illusion of their individuality and their apparent separation from both each other and from the Creation. Rarely, if ever, did they ever realize their fundamental spiritual unity with each other; let alone their even more fundamental unity with not only the Creation, but because that Creation was itself the physical manifestation of the Divine, with God himself.

By Theseustoo

Croesus burst into the war room, beaming radiantly. The news he’d received from the messengers he’d sent to test the accuracy of the oracles was quite evidently very pleasing to him, thought Sandanis to himself, as he witnessed the King’s energetic and dramatic entrance. Silently the general thanked the gods as he saw that his master had apparently recovered something of his old self; gone now was the total inertia and apathy which for so long had paralysed both the king and the country; gone too were the doleful expression and the constant heavy sighs, weighted with the leaden grief which had filled his soul for two whole years, like excess ballast in a storm-tossed and leaking ship.

This newly-revivified Croesus carried a capacious leather wallet, full of papyrus scrolls which he placed on the chart-table in the centre of the room; leaving aside all but two of them, he looked Sandanis in the eye as he held up the two items of particular interest. Though his expression bordered on gleeful, an ironic glint in Croesus’ eyes gave his face a darkly sardonic cast which immediately conveyed the vital importance of the contents of these two scrolls not only to the king himself but to the whole empire. Still grinning at the generals and their assembled staff officers; and holding aloft these two papyrus scrolls, he looked just like a prize-winning poet or playwright at the games, thought Sandanis, as Croesus addressed his staff:
“Well, gentlemen; of all the Greek oracles, only those at Delphi and at Amphiaraus have returned accurate answers; Delphi’s response says:” here he paused for dramatic effect as he unrolled one of the papyrus scrolls, from which he read dramatically, “’I can count the sands, and I can measure the ocean; I have ears for the silent, and I know what the dumb man meaneth; Lo! On my sense there striketh the smell of a shell-covered tortoise, Boiling now on a fire, with the flesh of a lamb, in a cauldron – Brass is the vessel below, and brass the cover above it.’” Putting down the scrolls, he continued in a slightly more normal voice, “The answer from Amphiaraus is similar, though not quite so precise…”
“But what do they mean Sire?” Sandanis asked, “And how can you be sure they are accurate?”

The general had been intrigued by Croesus’ plan to test the accuracy, and hence the validity of the oracles; should the gods permit such a plan to work, he realized immediately its strategic importance; they would be the only people in the world who would know which oracles could be believed, and which could safely be ignored; and this information, he knew, would be extremely useful to any military commander.
“I considered for a long time,” Croesus began, in the suspenseful manner of a master story-teller, delaying to the last possible instant the moment of final revelation, “what would be the least predictable thing I could do on the day appointed, so I spent the day cooking a turtle and a lamb, which I slaughtered and butchered myself; then I boiled them in a great brass cauldron with a brass lid.”
Sandanis and the other officers gasped with amazement at the remarkable accuracy of the Delphic oracle’s response to their master’s enquiry, as Cyrus continued, “Gentlemen we now know which are the only true oracles! By my decree, everyone in Lydia is to offer sacrifice to the oracles of Delphi and Amphiaraus; each according to his means.”
Sandanis nodded his agreement; it was a very good idea to offer thanks to the gods for this news, he thought wryly to himself; attempting to test the oracle was attempting to test the gods; that they had actually deigned to answer Croesus’ question in spite of its impertinence was more amazing for its generosity than it was for its accuracy. Croesus was just as aware of having ‘tweaked the tail of the tiger’ and survived as was Sandanis; he continued, solemnly pledging, “I myself shall sacrifice three thousand of every type of sacrificial animal along with much gold and purple; I shall also send generous gifts of gold, silver and purple to these oracles; thus we shall ensure the continuing favour of the gods. And we shall send again to enquire how long my empire will last; and whether or not we should find an ally to help us check Cyrus’ ambitions.”
Sandanis was overjoyed that his master’s plan to test the oracles had worked. However, pleased though he was by this wonderful development, he was even more pleased to see the effect it had on his king. The lethargy which had paralysed him for so long had disappeared completely now and Croesus was thoroughly re-energized with a new zeal for his imperial plans. Thank the gods, the general silently thought to himself with pious gratitude to whichever god or gods who had performed this miraculous transformation. His intrusion on his master’s grief to inform him about the defeat of Astyages the Mede and the rise of Persia was now totally vindicated. He had known all along that Croesus’ kingly pride would never have allowed either himself or his newly-won empire to be threatened by this young Persian upstart; this Cyrus. This had been just what he’d needed.
But perhaps even more importantly, the fact that they had successfully tested the oracles could only indicate the favour of the gods themselves; all Croesus’ augurs and soothsayers agreed that it indicated that he had been chosen by the gods themselves to have this significant advantage over all other kingdoms. Now Croesus was filled with renewed confidence in his plans for expanding his empire; safe and secure in the knowledge that he was chosen by the gods themselves. And if the gods were on his side, Sandanis thought, then what had Croesus to fear?
If he were truly the gods’ Chosen One as the augurs and soothsayers declared; if he were truly the Son of Heaven, the Anointed One whose path to victory over the whole world had been foretold ages ago in the most ancient and revered prophecies, then surely the gods themselves would ensure that he would find some solution to the problem of a suitable heir; for his mute son; the only son he had left for an heir, Sandanis realized, would never be able to rule.
Ouranos, Sandanis silently prayed to the very oldest of the gods, Lord of Time! You change everything! Grief changes to joy and from death itself all new life emerges; just as winter changes to spring and life returns to the world. Thank you, Lord Ouranos, for your gift; the gift of healing…
With this he silently vowed that he would sacrifice a heifer at the temple as soon as possible. Observing this sudden wonderful change in his king, Sandanis felt intuitively that the whole world was now about to change dramatically, though how it would change, he could not possibly predict. But he was now quite confident that whatever changes were about to come, they could only be for the better; for while his king had languished under the melancholy induced by his grief; the kingdom too, had also languished under the lack of his direction.

Building plans and trading schemes as well as plans for civic and social improvement had all either been put aside completely or else postponed until the king could once again give them his full attention; and this inertia had affected the economy so badly that many plans for military consolidation and expansion had also been shelved.
Before this day the king’s mind and soul had been so paralysed by his grief that he could scarcely contemplate his duties, let alone fulfil them. While Croesus had mourned for his son and heir, the astute Sandanis knew that his whole empire had been in danger of losing the momentum it had gained as a result of his numerous earlier conquests; and without the momentum to carry it forward, he realized, the empire would have been in danger of collapsing back in on itself. But, he thought happily, as anticipation arose in his breast, now the king had recovered his zest for life; now the empire would see some action!

*** ***** ***

By Theseustoo

“What is so important,” Croesus demanded angrily as he strode into the War Room, “that it must intrude on my grief?”

His generals had been more than a little reluctant to send a servant to disturb their king, but it had been more than two years since the death of Croesus’ son, Atys. Surely it would be unhealthy they had reasoned, to let him grieve any more? In any case, what they’d heard about the new developments in the situation across the river Halys was so disturbing that they felt such an intrusion was more than warranted.
Clearing his throat nervously, Sandanis, the greatest of Croesus’ generals, responded, tactfully dispensing with the usual pleasantries and getting straight to business:
“We have just received intelligence from Media,” he began as he unrolled a scroll of papyrus, from which he now read his spies’ report verbatim: “Cyrus, the son of Cambyses has overthrown the empire of Astyages the Mede; Astyages is now a prisoner and the Persians are growing more powerful every day!” Croesus’ raised eyebrows registered surprise at this news; and yet, it was not entirely unexpected.
“I see…” he said. Then, as if talking only to himself, he continued with a heavy sigh, “I warned my brother-in-law not to be too excessive in his exploitation of his people or it would lead to revolt; and now I’m left with the duty of rescuing and avenging him… You see the Persians as a threat, do you?”
Sandanis ignored what, under any other circumstances, he might have taken as an implied slur on his courage and gave his answer with an expressionless face, “Not yet Sire, but unless they are checked soon they will become one. They now rule all Asia east of the Halys except for Babylon. They have even attempted to persuade the Greek cities in Ionia and Aeolia to revolt… but thus far the Greeks remain loyal to your majesty. However, I think the sooner Persian ambitions are curbed, the better.”
“Indeed;” the monarch replied gravely, “I cannot allow this young upstart to stir up a rebellion in our Greek territories. Are we strong enough to stop them?”
“It’s difficult to say, your Majesty…” Sandanis cautiously replied. He’d heard some remarkable stories about this new ruler of what was now the Persian Empire. Yet he did not wish to sound like either a coward or a defeatist; tactfully he explained the situation, “Our armies are very experienced from recent wars; but their numbers are as great as ours and by all accounts this Cyrus is a natural general; a popular leader with a very quick mind. He will not be easy to defeat. We may need allies…”
Croesus frowned at this assessment; yet he knew it was true enough; the war of expansion in which Lydia had been engaged over the past couple of decades had very seriously depleted his army’s ranks. Pensively, he said, “The problem with allies is that if you’re weak enough to need them they may well be tempted to take advantage of the situation rather than help… We must be certain of victory before we attack.”
“Perhaps your majesty should consult an oracle…?” the general suggested, innocently enough; however he was very surprised by the bitterness that his king’s tone of voice now revealed as he replied:
“Hah! Oracles! What do they really know? Ever since the death of my son, Atys, I have felt that I cannot trust oracles“.
Sandanis was confused. Oh, he knew the story; the oracle had predicted that Atys would die pierced by sharp steel; Croesus had taken all the arms and armour down from the walls of his palace in case a piece should fall on his son; he had even kept Atys away from any of the other usual manly pursuits, most of which involved weapons of one kind or another; until finally Atys had rebelled when some of his friends chided him for his effeminacy.
At the time a notorious wild boar terrorised the countryside around the Mysian Olympus; causing havoc to local farms by rooting up the farmers’ crops before they could ripen enough to harvest. The huge boar had already injured two hunters who had attempted to catch it. Desiring above all else to prove his manhood, Atys had eventually persuaded Croesus to allow him to go and hunt for this boar. He had reasoned that, after all, the prophecy had said he was to be pierced by steel, not the tusks of a wild animal, so, he had insisted, there was no particular danger. Croesus relented eventually and allowed him go, but sent with him a man by the name of Adrastus to be his bodyguard.
Now, Adrastus was the son of the Phrygian King, Gordias and a grandson of King Midas, whom Croesus had accepted into his house as a suppliant, out of his compassion for the young man’s plight, when he had come to Croesus for refuge after having been exiled from Phrygia for accidentally killing his own brother.
The law was clear, however; and it made no distinction between an accident and murder; a killing was a killing; and it was all ‘murder’; with, of course, the exception of war, which was regarded as the most noble activity of mankind; and of course, revenge, which was regarded as a sacred duty; and which one neglected only at one’s peril. Failure to observe this most ancient of all laws was to render oneself liable to be hounded to the very point of madness by the Furies themselves for neglecting this most ancient of duties, for these Furies were the restless souls of the deceased, now transformed into vampiric monstrosities who hounded anyone rash or careless enough to neglect their duty to avenge themselves for the death of any family- member or close relative; or even a close comrade or friend.
In the most ancient of times, the law had demanded ‘a life for a life’ in each and every case. But now, in cases where there was no malicious intent, or in cases where there was an acceptable justification for the act, this automatic death-sentence was usually commuted to exile and the payment of compensation in the form of ‘blood-money’, which was now considered sufficient to recompense the family of the victim for their loss. The performance of the correct rituals while in exile would eventually purify even deliberate murderers of all the spiritual pollution which inevitably attaches itself to his – or her – person during the commission of the crime.
Such was this young man’s sadness, though more for the loss of his brother than for his own present solitary fate, that Croesus had readily granted his request to undergo in Lydia those rites of purification which would enable him to properly cleanse himself of the spiritual stain of his brother’s blood; for in Lydia the rites of purification are virtually identical to those practiced in Greece; another reminder of Lydia’s long-term domination by the descendants of the famous Heracles; the Heraclides.
Atys had a younger brother, but he was a mute; and as such was commonly regarded as an imbecile. He was thus incapable of being the kind of company a brother needs; and although Atys loved his brother, he could talk to Adrastus; so as the latter had been with Croesus’ household for several years, he had come to be seen as, and to feel, just like a brother to the youthful Atys, who was almost the same age as the brother Adrastus had lost.
The two boys were thus very excited about going hunting together; although Atys, of course, was especially excited because it was his very first hunt. Unfortunately, as Atys had tackled the huge boar from one side, the luckless Adrastus had simultaneously thrown his spear from the other. But the animal had swiftly dodged the missile; dashing off into the undergrowth as, having missed its intended target, the steel-tipped spear now pierced Atys through the heart, killing him instantly.

Croesus had been in an agony of grief over the death of his son and heir. Nonetheless he was moved with pity for the hapless Adrastus, who was so distraught at his ineptitude that he had begged Croesus to allow him to sacrifice himself over the corpse of his son as Croesus’ revenge for Atys’ death. But Croesus knew that nothing would bring back his son; and he was just as saddened by Adrastus’ pitiful self-condemnation as he was by his son’s death, for Adrastus, who insistently offered to fall on his sword over Atys’ funeral pyre, was quite clearly even more tortured by the results of his ineptitude than was Croesus himself. So instead of going along with the tradition which required his life in revenge for his son’s death, Croesus had decided to let him live; saying that since Adrastus had proclaimed the sentence of death against himself, Croesus felt that he had already had all the revenge he needed.
Oh yes, Sandanis knew the story very well, but why would that lead Croesus to mistrust oracles? After all, he thought, the Pythoness had been right about the death of Croesus’ son, hadn’t she? Atys had died a violent death, pierced by sharp steel, just as she had predicted. Puzzled, Sandanis couldn’t help but ask his king for clarification:
“I beg your pardon Sire, but I don’t understand; the death of your son, though regrettable, was accurately predicted by the oracle wasn’t it…?”
“Predicted by it…? Or caused by it?” Croesus replied enigmatically, then after a few more moments he asked his general bitterly, “Do you know what the Delphic oracle said when I asked if my other son, a deaf-mute since birth, would ever speak? That I would rue the day I should first hear his voice! Yet now more than ever I would give much to hear him speak…”
Again he paused. When he spoke again it was to ask, more of himself than Sandanis, “What do they really know, these oracles that pretend to know everything?”
Then an idea struck him. He continued, talking now almost to himself as he explored the possibilities, thinking aloud, “I wonder… Suppose the oracles could be tested…? I think I know how it might be done…”
Suddenly he turned to Sandanis, and pointing to the map as spoke the names of the places said, “Send messengers to the oracles, some to Delphi, some to Abae in Phocis, and some to Dodona; others to the oracle of Amphiaraus; others to that of Trophonius; others, again, to Branchidae in Milesia. We shall consult all of these Greek oracles… And send another embassy to Libya to consult the oracle of Ammon.”
A scribe hurried to write down the list as he spoke. When he had finished scribbling and looked up again, the monarch continued, “They are all to keep count of the days; on the one hundredth day from today, they are to enquire of the oracles what I, Croesus, son of Alyattes, am doing on that day. Then they are to take down the oracles’ answers on paper and report back to me.”
The scribe nodded his understanding of his instructions as Croesus turned back to Sandanis and said, “Thus we will test the knowledge of all the oracles, and, if they return true answers, perhaps we shall send a second time and inquire if we should attack the Persians.”
A single nod from Sandanis to the scribe, who had already heard and understood his king’s orders, ensured that they would be carried out to the letter. Soon Croesus would know just exactly which, if any, of these oracles were accurate enough to be trusted.