Cyrus

by

Theseustoo

Usually only a single herald was sent with enquiries for the oracle at Delphi. However, in this particular instance Croesus wisely sent two; each to guard the other, in case either the Pythoness or perhaps even the god himself should decide to avenge themselves for what Croesus realized might very well be taken as an impertinent question. Neither gods nor their priestesses, Croesus knew, took kindly to impertinence. Croesus was not afraid for himself, however, indeed he was perfectly willing to suffer whatever punishment the gods may decide to inflict on him, but he felt it would be unjust if their anger were to be vented on these innocent messengers.

Another unusual aspect to this particular expedition was the absence of any of the usual gifts of gold, silver or purple which traditionally accompanied such an enquiry. Although Croesus had reminded his heralds that Lydia had just been granted permanent exemption from all fees by the Pythoness herself, they nevertheless still felt nervous; especially when they considered the nature of the question they were now obliged to put to the most powerful oracle in the world. Thus it was two extremely nervous Lydian heralds who arrived all too soon at the sacred shrine of the oracle.

The Pythoness had been gracious enough to grant them an audience immediately. Her imposing presence terrified the two trembling heralds as, with her white arms wreathed in living snakes and her eyes flashing with the internal fires of infinite knowledge and infinite wisdom, the demi-goddess descended the thirteen marble steps which rose to the dais from which she habitually consulted the gods of the abyss which yawned beneath her; and from which they spoke to humanity, directly through her.

The vocal utterings with which, in an entranced state, the Pythoness transmitted the will of the gods of the abyss were totally incomprehensible to mere mortals, however. First, they were translated and the words recorded by a priestess and then filed in the Tablet House, after a copy of the original had been made to give to inquirers. It took many years of education to learn how to interpret this godly language; many more years of arduous studying and meditation before any candidate could even hope to be considered as eligible for one of the few exalted positions of Student of the Oracle; and many, many more years of study, meditation and also waiting patiently until the incumbent Pythoness dies before one of these rarest of mortal individuals was chosen as her replacement. Thus, regardless of who the incumbent was, the Pythoness was always a most formidable and highly imposing person.

The Pythoness was not presently entranced however and, with an effortless grace she descended from her sacred raised dais towards the two trembling messengers, to whom her manner seemed haughty and severe; as indeed, they would have expected from a goddess.

The unusually intelligent consciousness in her eyes; the way they seemed to look not at, but through people, as if she saw not only their outer personal appearance, but also inside them to the very depths of their souls, added to the mystique which adorned the Pythoness like glamour itself; a magical aura which emanated from her very person. The Pythoness knew the effect her highly cultivated and refined manners and appearance had on people; indeed she always carefully stage-managed her interviews to achieve exactly that effect; although she was sometimes a little surprised at the extent to which some of her visitors were affected by it.

Nevertheless, this glamour was a very useful tool, and the Pythoness, after a lifetime of training, used it with great skill. In the current circumstances, this too, only added to the fear the Pythoness’ imposing presence was generating in the hearts of Croesus’ quaking messengers as she waited in silence in front of, and a few steps above them, for their question. Nervously, the bolder of the two heralds looked up into those intense emerald-green eyes and, with as much courage as he could summon up, said in a quavering voice,

“Our master, Croesus of Lydia, wishes to enquire if you are not ashamed of having encouraged him to begin a war with Persia of which these were the first-fruits?”

As he spoke he took the shackles with which Croesus had been bound from a large leather wallet he carried slung over his shoulder, and tossed them at the Pythoness’ feet. Then, with a kind courage of which only the powerless are capable, he continued bravely, “…and if it is the Greek gods’ habit to be ungrateful?”

The dark look the Pythoness now gave him withered the fearful messenger who now cringed and cowered before her, afraid for his very life. But the words which came from her mouth next astonished him; as did the tone in which they were uttered, for it was not harsh or angry and recriminating, but kind and gentle and not at all what he had expected:

“It is not possible” the Pythoness began softly, “even for a god to escape the decree of destiny…”

Where the messengers had been expecting anger at the impertinence of their question, there was only understanding; and a gentle explanation as, seeing the puzzled expressions which now replaced the immediately relieved expressions which had briefly appeared on their altogether astonished faces, the Pythoness continued her explanation:

“Croesus has been punished” she said, “for the sin of his fifth ancestor, Gyges, who, when he was one of the body-guard of the Heraclides, joined in a woman’s fraud and, slaying his master Candaules, wrongfully seized the throne.”

The heralds were familiar with the story; indeed it was the foundation story of their own, until very recently, independent nation of Lydia; Gyges, their first truly Lydian king, had been persuaded by Candaules’ wife to kill her husband, the last king of the Greek Heraclides dynasty. This was her revenge on her husband, Candaules, who had outraged his wife and queen when he had secretly displayed her naked body to Gyges as a result of Candaules’ own excessive admiration for her beauty. That explains, the heralds now thought to themselves, why such an indisputably holy man as their master, Croesus, had suffered such a reversal of fortune; as the now unusually un-entranced and remarkably garrulous Pythoness continued,

“Apollo was anxious that Sardis should not fall in the lifetime of Croesus, but be delayed to his son’s time; he could not, however, persuade the Fates. All they were willing to allow he took and gave to Croesus. Let Croesus know that Apollo delayed the taking of Sardis for three full years, and that he is thus a prisoner three years later than was his destiny. Moreover it was Apollo who saved him from the fire. Nor has Croesus any right to complain about the oracular answers he received. For when the god told him that if he attacked the Persians he would destroy a mighty empire, he ought, if he had been wise, to have sent again and inquired which empire was meant, that of Cyrus or his own.” At this point the Pythoness’ voice darkened several shades, “But if he neither understood what was said, nor took the trouble to seek further enlightenment, he has only himself to blame for the result.”

The messengers, now immensely relieved that their lives were no longer in any apparent danger, quietly nodded their understanding of the Pythoness’ explanation. The one who had spoken earlier was about to enquire about the meaning of the mule in her prophecy but she apparently divined what he was about to say, for she interrupted him, silencing him with a single raised finger as soon as he opened his mouth, and gave him the answer to his question before it was even asked:

“Besides,” she said as the herald gaped like an astonished goldfish, “he misunderstood the last answer which was given him about the mule. Cyrus was that mule! For the parents of Cyrus were of different races; and of different conditions.  His mother was a Median princess; the daughter of King Astyages; and his father a Persian and a mere subject, who, though so far beneath her in all respects, had married his royal mistress.”

When the messengers returned to Sardis to report the Pythoness’ answer to Croesus, their one-time king accepted it with a quiet and resigned patience which several centuries later, the Greeks would come to call ‘stoicism’. Addressing Apollo, the god of prophecy, who had saved him from the fire, Croesus poured a libation in his honour; as the one-time king now sighed a brief prayer of repentance,

“Alas! Now I can see clearly all that I could not see before; the fault is my own and not the god’s…”

***   *****   ***

Cyrus had, of course, occupied Croesus’ palace in the newly-captured city of Sardis, but as he truly did not wish to cause this holy man any further distress he allowed Croesus to keep his own personal apartments.

But it was from the throne room of Croesus’ palace that Cyrus administered his new province; and it was in this throne room where he now received two Greek heralds; one from Ionia and another from Aeolia.

The people of these Asian-Greek provinces, both of which had previously been tributaries to Croesus, had just heard of the fall of Sardis and had sent these messengers to try and forestall any desire for vengeance which Cyrus’ may feel tempted to exercise for their earlier blunt refusal to join him in his rebellion against Croesus. They had started by offering him an alliance on the same terms as they had held under Croesus…

Coldly, Cyrus addressed them both,

“So, you have been sent from Aeolia and Ionia to request alliances with me now that I have conquered your master, Croesus. Yet you refused to revolt against him even when I offered you the same kind of liberation the Milesians now enjoy. And now that Sardis is conquered and Croesus is my servant, you come to offer me the same terms of fealty you used to have under him. Here is my answer:

There was a certain piper, who was walking one day by the seaside when he espied some fish; so he began to pipe to them, imagining that they would come out to dance for him upon the land. But as he found at last that his hope was in vain, he took a net, and enclosing a great draught of fishes, drew them ashore. Then the fish began to leap and dance; but the piper said, ‘Cease your dancing now, as you did not choose to come and dance when I piped to you.’ Now go!”

The terrified ambassadors exchanged fearful glances and then, bowing and scraping obsequiously and repeatedly they hurriedly backed out of the throne room.

***   *****   ***