I have stood against war since I was able to understand what it means. As a schoolie I filled in dozens if not hundreds of bogus Vietnam draft registration cards. I was surprised to find myself to suddenly be a geriatric protester – once more at the barricades – far later in life than I had grown to expect – against the then coming war in Iraq.
Australian Jacqui de Gelder on patrol in Afghanistan
My take on Afghanistan is the same as my take on Iraq. As evil as a government is, civil wars are for people of that nation to sort out on their own. These are not places for Australian working class kids to die and be horribly injured. Are there sons and daughters of the wealthy, privileged and powerful in our society fighting in these foreign wars ?
I have a work colleague. I didn’t know his son was a soldier. Until my colleague and his wife flew to Germany because the military said they thought the boy was dying. He had lost both legs and one hand and had horrific facial injuries from an IED. The fierce heat of the blast cauterised his major arteries, otherwise he would have been dead in minutes. He pulled through and now has the luxury of a pair of bionic legs worth about the same as a Ferrari. In the hospital, his Mum held the hand of an American Mum whose boy was not so lucky. He died four days later. Slowly. In a morphine fog.
I totally reject the notion that to withdraw now is to betray this man and our other fallen and wounded soldiers in Afghanistan. I am in favour of not suffering another casualty.
This is not a just war. This war is not fighting for the free world against Hitler. This war is bullshit, lies and spin. It costs Australia – according to one of the writers on Unleashed $6 billion a year. Your tax and mine funds this pointless farrago and at the same time contributes to the death and wounding of countless civilians.
Our leaders say things like “stay the course”, “defeat the Taliban”, “deny a safe haven for Al Qaeda” – in case Al Qaeda can’t figure out how to get into Yemen, Somalia or Pakistan.
As far as Australia being reluctant to make the first backward move on the chess board is concerned, the Russian grand masters have resigned decades ago and have not the Dutch already castled ? It’s my guess that like compulsive gamblers this coalition of the willing western governments just cannot face the fact that there will never be a win in Afghanistan. Blood and treasure. Blood and treasure.
I think I’d better run up my flag at the pub. I’m ready for a discussion and a good argument …. Argument- where the point is not to prove oneself right and superior, but to bring out the truth.
Intrepid Pig's Arm's foreign correspondent Neville Cole travelled to Chile to secure this amazing first hand account of a miner's ordeal
Translated by Neville Cole
Rescued Chilean miner, Jaime Esteban, is the first of the trapped miners to release his account of the harrowing 69 days he and his 32 fellow miners spent underground. Here are some excerpts he read to me from his personal diary.
Day 1: It appears we have been cut off from the outside world. ¡Dios mio! I can’t help but wonder if it is all my fault. I did not make a sacrifice to el Diablo this morning. Every day since I was a small boy I have poured some pisco at el Diablo’s feet before descending into the mine; but this morning I was so hung over I kept all of that delicious brandy for myself. Some hair of the dog, as they say. I wonder if I should tell my 32 mine brothers of my terrible mistake? At the moment most of them are convinced it is Paco’s fault and besides it is true he is always leaving the oil lamps burning in the dynamite store room. I think it is probably best to keep my secret to myself, just in case.
Day 2: We have all smoked nearly all our cigarettes already. I hope we are rescued soon. I am not sure how long we will all last without nicotine. Paco is very drunk and trying to convince everyone we should remove our clothes and huddle together to keep warm. I had to remind him several times it is 37 degrees Celsius down here to which he eventually replied it was clearly too hot to wear clothes and ever since he has been walking around taking an extended air bath. I am glad it is very dark down here.
Day 3: Paco tried to get all of us to make a pact that should any of us die we would agree to allow our fellow mine brothers divide up our remains and eat them. Further more he wanted us to agree to eat someone at random should our food supplies get dangerously low. We all voted that it was way too early to be discussing such extreme measures.
Day 4: Jorge caught Paco red-handed today. He was breaking into our food locker. He claimed he was only checking to see if supplies were dangerously low yet. He seems determine to eat one of us.
Day 5: It is becoming clear that we will be stuck in this mine for a very long time. Perhaps forever. It is difficult to keep track of time as we never see sunlight and none of us wears a watch that keeps good time. We have decided to etch a calendar on the wall and keep track of the passing days by monitoring our bowel movements.
Day 6: It was Paco’s turn to make dinner tonight. Now, we all have the shits. Alejandro yelled at him that he must always wash his hands before cooking and that he may never again cook in the nude.
Day 7?: Silvestro handed out handfuls of coca leaves to all yesterday claiming that it would cure our intestinal issues. It hasn’t. None of us can sleep now. Pablo decided to start training for the Santiago Marathon and went for a run through the mine shafts. He was gone for hours, I think. Mario announced he was going to write an opera about our experiences and now will not stop singing his every thought out loud. For the first time since the collapse Paco is not the most annoying person in the mine.
Day ?? Haven’t written in at least a few days. Morale is at an all time low. There are no cigarettes, alcohol or coca leaves left but at least the shitting has slowed. We are all missing our loved ones terribly. I think about mi madre and how empty her heart must be without her Jaime by her side. I think of my beautiful wife, mother of my children and oh, how I worry for my dear five (or is it six?) little ones. I pray they will not have to suffer long without their father’s guidance and love. I also find I think most often about my lover, Maria and her fine round ass as smooth and firm as a fattened pig’s.
Day 32: The calendar we etched on the mine wall says today is Day 32 but I am not sure it has really been that long. During our long battle with diarrhea, I am convinced several extra days were added by mistake. I also have a sneaking suspicion that Paco has been adding days when no one is looking in a feeble attempt to convince us to start eating each other.
Day Whatever: I have given up trying to keep track of passing days. I no longer care as I am finally convinced that I will die in this godforsaken hellhole. Pablo on the other hand is now running seven-and-a-half minute splits and completes 15 miles a day on average. His only concern now is adapting to the altitude in Santiago. He also wonders if he will be able to run in the daytime without his mine helmet on.
Day 30: We have finally made contact with the rescuers and now know for certain that we have been trapped in the mine for 30 days. We cheered with delight at the thought that we will soon be free. Paco cried out for a group hug and we all joined in happily. We did draw the line at a group nude cuddle session however.
Day 31: We asked today how long it would be before we could see our loved ones and breathe fresh, pure Chilean air and bask in the warm, healing Chilean sun. The rescue team sent word that they would get right back to us about that.
Day 32: Today I woke to find Paco spooning me from behind and worse he seemed to be enjoying it. I pushed him away but before I could confront him he firmly cautioned me about the terrible dangers of waking a sleepwalker. He told me the next time he happened by in a somnambulant state that it was imperative I let him finish. He wandered off before I had a chance to find out what the hell he was talking about.
Day 33: Still no word from the rescue team about when we should expect our release. Paco again tried to convince us that the world would forgive a little cannibalism as long as we all had the story straight.
Day 39: Just received confirmation that we may be stuck here for another month. Pablo is furious. He says if we wait that long it will ruin his whole training regimen and there is no way he can be ready for the marathon now.
Day 40: Pablo is in a terrible funk. Mario offered to run with him today but Pablo just whispered “What’s the point? What’s the point of any of this? If I can’t run in the marathon what’s the point of getting out of here at all?”
Day 50: Today, our 50th day underground was also my 50th birthday. Juan fashioned a cake for me out of dirt and dried prunes. It was beautiful and I was very touched when all my brothers sang ¡Feliz cumpleaños!; but then the celebration was dimmed when we realized no one could eat even a single slice as all our teeth have fallen out. Why didn’t even one of us pack a tooth brush?
Day 60: It has been confirmed! We will all be free very soon! We are so happy today. Well, except Paco, who actually seems to enjoy living naked in a hot dark hole surrounded by men.
Day 69: I am to next in line to rise to the surface. I cannot believe this wondrous day has arrived. Very soon I will finally see my loved ones. I am so glad Maria is married. She will at least have the sense not to confront my mother and wife in front of such a big crowd of people. That’s all I need to deal with after 69 days down here. We have heard the President himself is up above to greet us. We have heard that TV cameras are recording every moment and that millions around the world are waiting to greet us with tears of joy. Everyone has been hugging and crying and singing praises. We even convinced Paco to put his clothes back on. He seems to have pulled himself together but keeps pacing back and forth, laughing awkwardly and saying loudly to anyone within earshot: “Hey, what happens down the mine stays down the mine. Right guys? Am I right? I’m right, right?”
Foodge steered the big Zephyr, down the main drag. He was a few minutes early, in spite of waiting for Emmjay and First Mate to dress. Foodge thought that the white dinner jacket, and black silk dress were overkill, but, he thought, can take the wardrobe manager out of the wardrobe, et cetera. There wasn’t a parking space to be had. The entire street was lined with Charlies, ancient Austin A-sevens and Morris Minors, a couple of Pleece cars, and a clutch of motor scooters. Foodge left the car with the nose in a clearway. He made sure that his “Private Investigator’ card was on the dash, although this was unlikely to impress a parking inspector. They crossed the road; ignoring the crossing that was only metres away, inciting angry horn blasts from motorists.
The Pigs Arms was full, but this was no party. Lambrettists and Angles were talking in hushed tones. A very distraught Granny was surrounded by Bowling Ladies, who were in crisis mode, that is, they were making acrid tea, ham and tomato sandwiches on day old Tipp-Topp with thick linings of margarine. The really disturbing thing was, not the absence of the hum of conversation, but the absence of beer. The Professor was carrying a tray of teacups, whilst Hedgie was topping them up with the battered old enamel teapot. Merv had changed out of his morning attire of pink shorts and fluoro yellow tank top, into his good suit, and sat with a more dazed expression than usual. Janet had abandoned the afternoon TV game shows to sit and support him, all the while rubbing her gravid abdomen.
There was the most unusual aroma coming from the kitchen. Foodge couldn’t place it, but Emmjay couldn’t help himself. “Curry, Foodge, they must have a new cook!” The trio wandered over to O’Hoo, who was sharing a bottle of Shiraz with his paramour, using real wine glasses, for a change.
“Cheers Foodge”. Both DCI Rouge and O’Hoo raised their glasses, as the pub became deathly quiet.
“What the hells going on.” Whispered Foodge.
“They’ve all decided to pitch in and help solve the Great Pig’s Arms Brewing Mystery, at least, that’s what we’ve named it.” Grinned O’Hoo. “Take a seat.” O’Hoo poured three more glasses of Shiraz, whilst various patrons presented themselves, shaking hands, or patting Foodge on the shoulder, pledging their assistance.
“Dinner’s ready.” Roared Gez, from the kitchen. The Bowling Ladies had already converted the billiard table into a dining table, and had gathered an eclectic mixture of crockery and ‘good silver’. Gez brought in a huge steaming tureen of something he called ‘booyabays’, but everyone thought it tasted like seafood soup. The new chef, ‘Vivienne’ who carried a matching pot of curried prawns, followed him.
Everyone tucked in. It was even better than the Chinese at the Rissole Club. Merv served a round of Pink Drinks, then, after the meal was over, all eyes were on Foodge and O’Hoo, the Pig’s own detectives (plus DCI Rouge, but, Foodge and O’Hoo really grew up here). Foodge stood up. “I’d like to, ah, thank you all, for, ah, putting in with this meal. Err, ah, I have been putting some thought into the problems of our brews.” Foodge nodded to Granny, who burst into tears, again. He looked away, slightly embarrassed, but could feel dozens of pairs of eyes boring into him. “While there may be some natural explanation for this phenomenon, and we’ll be calling on our scientific friends for advice.” Foodge nodded to the Professor, who bowed his head slightly in response. “There may also be malfeasance at play here.” Everyone in the room gasped. “There’s no need for alarm, if the Pigs Arms, or, Granny herself have an enemy, then ruining our brews is the full extent of the damage. No one here is at risk of death or injury.” His oratory was interrupted by a gasp from Beryl, who clutched at her chest. Hedgie was at her side, in an instant, whilst a dozen wrinkled old hands foraged in a dozen wrinkled old handbags then proffered a dozen Anginine tablets. Simultaneously a couple of Angles disappeared through the front door.
DCI Rouge, ever the voice of reason, stood next to Foodge, placing her hand on his shoulder. “Ladies, there is nothing to fear, Mr Foodge is simply outlining the various possibilities, like any good sleuth.” She paused to wink at O’Hoo, who missed the gesture, as he was busily mopping Burmese curry from his new silk tie. “I would like to add that, if this brewing failure is due to malice on the part of any individual, or, indeed, any group, then they will experience the legal consequences of their actions. The Pleece take a dim view…”
The entrance of Brkon and Andy, two of the Angles longest serving members, interrupted DCI Rouge’s address. “We have nitroush oxshide bottle. It is excellent nitric oxide doner! One shniff and der heart feel better.” Brkon brandished a small blue bottle, which he’d wrenched from his beloved 1967 super charged, Munch Mammoth. “Dis make big bike feel better, too!”
Hedgie stepped forward, with a small tear in his eye, as Brkon’s action was just like a mother taking food from her child. “It’s OK, mate, the Anginine’s already done the trick.” Beryl nodded, returning Hedgie’s little smile. “Look, I dunno, everyone’s upset, and emotional. We know we’ve got the best team in the world on this. I vote we should let’em get on with it.”
There was a rousing cheer, followed by toasts with teacups and a few wine glasses. A handful of Angles started to clear the table, whilst the Bowling Ladies hovered, trying to ensure that none of the ‘good china’ was damaged. Andy and Brkon made sure that Beryl couldn’t benefit from some ‘nitroush’, then went out to re-attach the bottle to the bike. A very nervous Merv and Granny approached the detectives, with faces like mourners at a funeral. “So, where are youz gunna start?”
Foodge was ready to launch into another long-winded explanation, when Rouge cut him off. “Foodge and my little Gerald.” She paused to look over at O’Hoo who had given up on the tie, as he had spread curry stains over his new white shirt. “Will examine this hotel from attic to basement, from front door to that stinking outhouse.” Her nose wrinkled at the thought. “I’d suggest that we co-opt Brkon and Andy. We can use their skills in microbiology and chemistry. Meanwhile I will personally search every person, or group, in the pleece database looking for any clue. We’re pulling out all stops on this one.” Rouge gave Granny a hug, pecked O’Hoo on the cheek, turned on her stiletto, and left.
Merv went around the back of the bar mumbling about. “Something special.” He re-appeared with a dusty bottle in one hand, and a clutch of whisky glasses in the other. He poured the amber liquid, handed around the glasses, and then raised his. “To Foodge and O’Hoo.” Then downed his in a single gulp. They all followed. Foodge took a second to examine the bottle, which was nothing less than Merv’s favourite tipple, ‘The Famous Grouch’, seventeen-month-old scotch.
Foodge shook hands with Merv and Granny. “Thanks for your confidence, we won’t let you down. Come on, O’Hoo, to the outhouse. No…hold on…we’ll start in the kitchen. No…Emmjay and First Mate are still wiping the dishes…to the attic.” Merv and Granny sat back to let the two detectives start detecting.
Watching some footage about our venerable leader Julia Gillard in Brussels at its historic centre, the memories came flooding back.
I had returned from a trip to Russia and had just finished painting the exterior of a house owned by Timothy Healy Hutchinson’ to help pay for the trip. (A bit of name dropping might be justified here, lifting PA to new heights)
The house was situated in London’s Sheppard’s Bush, where the three story terrace needed the hiring of an enormous 60ft ladder, which the raising of it to its full height was helped by a man who, to my utter surprise, stopped his car, got out all dressed in a suit and tie, and helped me hoist the ladder up. He then, without a word as much, returned to his car and continued his journey. This ladder came in three parts with lots of pulleys and ropes and made of course from aluminium, still weighing a lot.
Little did I know at the time that this would be the closest I would ever get close to literary fame.
But I regress. Back to Brussels where I had arrived with backpack and advice to potter about Brussels before catching a plane back to the delights of domesticity and The Inner West in Australia. The very hall where Gillard was filmed is also the centre of the world’s culinary delights. I don’t care about opinions from anyone or any Master Chef; Brussels is it when it comes to artistry of manipulating simple potatoes and salty prawns.
The amazing part of it is that the best of morsels, especially sea food morsels, are offered on silver platters, held by white coated ‘ garcon’ out on the streets in front of the restaurants, for anyone to taste and perhaps decide to come in and order a meal afterwards. Perhaps this delightful cultural procedure doesn’t exist anymore but at that time I took advantage of it, even to the extent of going full circle and honing in on another lot. It would certainly be helpful in case of being homeless or destitute. Would you not have done the same? Would you have gone back to your hotel room, changed your shirt and try look different and gone back for more? Be honest.
I moved with an even attention to not raising the alarm of the many eyes I believed were watching the trespass and tugged at Docherty’s boots as they manipulated frantic purchase on the sill of the entrance into the grass hut. The distinctive difference of the hut on stilts Docherty had run towards and deftly up its ladder was its higher elevation. He had in the same movement pushed athletic bulk in the dense black of the narrow entrance. A crescendo of murmurings suggested to me the compound’s native inhabitants in the likely proximity I had interpreted from eerie silence as Docherty and I approached just ahead of the others the red dirt track leading down to the settlement and grove of cultivation.
I supposed Docherty could not hear the murmuring in his scrabble part-inside and part-out of the construction. His legs and rubber-soled boots seemed to be pushing him inwards. Thick woven walls and his excitement doubtless insulated him from eruption of noise in any exterior world. The sound of the voices cackled in my mind with the danger I had sensed in the surround of tall native grass clumps and straggling palms and trees. These were people who had not seen the full potential of a white invasion I wondered. Their tones sounded referential, consultative rather than rabidly murderous. They might slit our throats with some polite justification if Docherty did not withdraw himself out of the hut I considered.
Only three ancient elders sitting in rock-like silence on a bench in the centre of the compound, about a quarter of the distance from the circular wall of huts where it bowed away neatly from our line of sight where we had entered the arena suggested habitation. The red ground of the compound beneath our feet that I supposed was tramped by generations into a compacted floor was so bare of debris it appeared fresh-swept. The rock-like silence endured of the elders and I wondered as I glanced discretely towards the row of men if they could speak. I supposed the venerables were left behind by the fleeing men, women and children who it was seeming had abandoned their village at the sound of our progress along the track from the landing strip on the edge of that high mountain place. The elders looked fragile, skeletal, but sighted or not seemed observant in their still demeanours and I drew the sense of their strength, their respect into a reservoir of belief I may be saved as I reached to grasp Docherty’s boots again.
We flew to the location in a plane that was chartered as result of a chance conversation in the Port Moresby Club. Docherty, buying up big and ferrying trays of exotic liquers he was insistent those who had never experienced them try got into a confrontation with a patron it transpired was a pilot scheduled to fly to keep an appointment in the Central Highlands the next day (He said it was social; a Saturday afternoon piss-up we surmised later). You will see natives, he assured Natural Ringleader Docherty loudly, Good Fun, Loveable Docherty, waving a dismissive hand at suggestion danger was involved. He would fly a little earlier than he intended, that was all. We could do whatever we wanted on arrival at his destination as long as he was left to his own devices and we meet him at the scheduled time for the return flight. If you don’t, the pilot warned, I’ll leave you on the mountain. On our arrival, he waved us in a direction opposite to his own.
Tugging sharply on Docherty’s right boot, I realised as equally as I did there was little danger for us in the original environment, that a sense they were in danger had begun crowding the natives from their hiding places. Big Docherty was used to being in charge. He needed strong persuasion to reverse his impulsive lunge. I said firmly, “Docherty, get out. You’re trespassing. This is the private property of these people.”
“No, No” I heard the muffled voice declare as if the magnification of the soul of an hypnotic, “There’s something in here. I want to see. I’ve got a match. I’ll light a match.”
I reached further into the dark cool and commanded by a combination of touch and tone that Docherty get out.
“You’re in danger. We all might be.”
I could hear the grasses rustling more loudly and rhythmically. The rising crescendo of murmuring was louder because it was drawing nearer. I just knew, although there was no sound of feet on the earth or on twigs or fallen palm branches.
“Everybody’s out,” Docherty had casually commented when we arrived on the edge of the mountain overlooking where its slope fell sharply on one side into a ravine and to a glimpse of the peaks ahead of huts in a circle. I was awed by the silence as we looked down on the splendid array of bright-leaved fronds and tropical bushes interspered with palms. “The people are hiding,” I said, instinctive, young, sensitive, attuned immediately to the meaning of the sound of a silence I had never experienced before and cherished for knowing. The air was crystal-glare. Despite our elevation and the sun was near enough its height, on exertion the heat was a swelter. It was air stripped nevetheless of the extreme stress of the sweltering heat of Moresby.
The bareness of the red-brown earth of the compound was a striking monochrome of colour in a rich mix of hues of green beyond the circle of this evidence of residential life.
As if a light had come on in Docherty’s head deep in the hut’s interior, Docherty’s head popped out of the black mouth of the hut. Docherty to my surprise looked mildly confused by himself, as if he was even grateful if he was to about to be slaughtered it would be from a standpoint of a renewed consciousness of realism. Having shown not the least consideration of fearful possibilities, possibilities seemed to be occurring to Docherty in a rush like the onset of a sudden tropical downpour of rain that is heralded by an atmosphere of pure swelter. Beads of moisture glistened in the sun that was falling over him like an illuminator of lost dreams, his face changed in the same thought to a sense of hope in contrast to sense of loss. I suppose he suffered hell. I supposed he thought of his one child in the States who he told me on our group chartered flight from Cairns was home in the States. That was my first experience of hearing the word “weed” and what was meant as he told me his despair his son preferred it to law school and described its effects. No Doubt Docherty as he scrabbled off the ledge of the hut now considered his own status, a now common trespasser attested by the extra tinges of pink flaring through the tan of his affluent and untrammelled face. The murmurings of the voices like the presage of a mob moving closer had remained uniform as if the same words and similar were being repeated by different people under the direction of a conductor of an invisible choir of voices reciting an orchestrated sound symphony. I had just finished High School. I was 17 and it was three months before I heard a choir perform an acapella sound poem I heard as a similar musical effect. As instantly as Docherty exited the hut, the music of the voices faded and fell to a low volume before rising to a cacophonic babble. Docherty flared red above his light cotton round neck t-shirt.
“What will we do?” he asked me.
I said lightly and pleasantly, accepting my leadership as survival, turning, looking at Docherty over my shoulder, “We walk back the way we came. Follow me.”
Docherty followed me to where the others waited ashen-Docherty greeted his wife shame-faced and she gathered him-and I walked with an easy stride indicating “Follow”. Everybody seemed to realise the safety cue I might best be seen with the red sun leaping through my hair as a young heroine leading Docherty away from dangerous mischievousness. We walked towards the narrow gap between two huts the way we had entered the compound. The silence that fell of the invisible people who lived here and had fled I was sure from their homes at the sound of our approach reassured. It meant we were free to leave. The sun etched a mottle on the trail through the vegetation when I glanced back where the huts described their edge around the circle of trodden red soil that was flat and occupied again only by the three old men I now did discern on the bench seat. I would never know them. We walked across to the red-dirt earth of the hill track we had followed down the mountain to the village and the sun blasted its heat on the steep aspect of the hill as we climbed to its top.
A herald brings word from the Scythian Queen, Tomyris...
CHAPTER 20, Part 2:
Cyrus had quickly inspected the territory of the Getae and then pushed on towards the Araxes, where he had made camp and settled down to wait for Tomyris’ response to his proposal. He did not have to wait long; indeed, he was surprised by how soon the baggage train returned to him. He had not been expecting to hear from this particular herald again for several weeks at least, while the herald, in his role as matchmaker, paid court to the Massagetae’s monarch for him. Yet here he was already, Cyrus thought with surprise as he watched the herald dismounting from the lead wagon of his baggage train. The herald then immediately strode through the camp to find Cyrus as usual, in conference with his officers around the campfire in front of his pavilion…
“Well now! What’s this?” Cyrus demanded as he saw the herald approach, “Why have you returned from your mission so soon? Is Tomyris so eager to accept my proposal?”
“I’m afraid not, your majesty.” The messenger replied in sorrowful tones, “Tomyris said that she is aware that it is her kingdom, and not herself, that you want. She forbade us to approach and told us to return with your gifts.”
“Unfortunate;” Cyrus said, with genuine remorse, “I had hoped that with her aid we could gain useful allies among the other Scythian tribes. But it seems as if the unity I seek can only be won by force.” He turned to his generals, “Pactyas! Have carpenters build towers on the boats so our archers may give cover to our men as they build a bridge across this river; we shall make Tomyris regret her coldness towards me! A king is not to be spurned so easily!”
Although he had said nothing of it earlier, there was one other reason he had wanted to be near the river Araxes, which formed the border of the Massagetae territory: should Tomyris fail to accept his offer of marriage and alliance, he would be in a good position to seize control of the Scythians’ territory with his armies. His search for a queen could wait awhile; and who knows, he thought optimistically, perhaps Tomyris may change her mind eventually. Once conquered, he knew; for he had seen it happen; even dire enemies sometimes turned into the best of friends in spite of themselves. His friendship with Croesus bore witness to this truth; and Cyrus hoped that this might also turn out to be the case with Tomyris, as even this would make his rule over the Massagetae easier. Cyrus knew that, in the eyes of her people, it would give his sovereignty much more legitimacy if he were to marry their queen, even if he did so after he had conquered her; and that would not only make them much easier to govern; but would gain him allies, rather than enemies, among the other Scythian tribes. Otherwise he knew he would have to kill her; and any offspring she may have.
*** ***** ***
Soon after the return of Cyrus’ matchmaker another herald arrived, this time bearing the banner of Tomyris, Queen of the Massagetae. The guards realized instantly that Cyrus would most certainly wish to speak with this new emissary, and let him pass immediately; one of the pair politely escorted him through the labyrinthine chaos of their camp and into the presence of the Persian king; then waited to escort him back out again.
“Well then herald,” Cyrus said, recognizing the colours of Queen Tomyris on the standard the herald bore, “has your queen seen the folly of refusing my proposal and changed her mind? Does she now see the wisdom of accepting the alliance I offered her?”
“No, great Lord,” the herald replied, “but she bids me to give you these words: ‘King of the Medes, cease to press this enterprise, for you cannot know if what you are doing will be of real advantage to you. Be content to rule your own kingdom in peace, and allow us to reign over the countries that are ours to govern. However, as I know you will not choose to listen to this counsel, since there is nothing you desire less than peace and quiet, come on then, if you are so eager to meet the Massagetae in arms, leave your useless toil of bridge-building; we shall retire three days’ march from the river bank so you may come across with your soldiers; or, if you prefer to give us battle on your side of the river, retire yourself an equal distance.’”
“A spirited message, herald!” Cyrus replied, showing no indication of having taken offence, “Your queen has many admirable qualities. It is truly a pity she has chosen to resist us when she could have ruled the world by my side. You may go now; I will discuss Tomyris’ offer with my chieftains and decide upon which side of the river we shall give her battle. Presently I shall send a herald with our answer.”
“Very well, great Lord; farewell.” The herald nodded a curt bow to Cyrus from the saddle of his horse and then deftly turned his animal around and followed the guard back out of the camp.
“Well then,” Cyrus said, addressing his officers when the herald had left, “you all heard Tomyris’ response to my proposal… What say you? Shall we give them battle on their side of the river… or on ours?”
His officers were quiet for some moments as each man present considered the situation; eventually it was Hystaspes who finally looked up and said, “Sire, it seems to me that it is better to fight them on this side of the river, where we are at least familiar with the terrain… We know nothing at all of the terrain on the other side of the river…” This was a good point, thought Cyrus; this was the first time any Persian or Mede had conquered territory as far east as the land of the Getae. Even on this side of the river their familiarity with the terrain was only recently acquired and still incomplete. No-one liked the thought of fighting an unknown enemy on their own ground with no advance knowledge of the terrain.
What Hystaspes had said made a great deal of sense. As Cyrus was considering his words, Pactyas spoke up in support of the general, “Hystaspes is right, your majesty! We know nothing at all about the other side of this river. Let us fight here, on ground we know!” At this there were shouts of “Hear, hear!”, “Aye!”, and “Fight them here!” from all of the officers present. When Cyrus saw that all of his officers were unanimously agreed, he said, “Very well! Since we are all agreed, we shall retire three days distance and allow the Massagetae to cross! Herald!”
A messenger quickly stepped forward and, with a smart bow, instantly prepared his mind to memorise any message with which his king might honour him. But just as Cyrus was about to give him his instructions, a voice interrupted him. It was Croesus; as a slave, he had held his tongue while the officers considered the king’s question and until they had said their piece. Now he stepped boldly forward however and with a deep bow of apology to the officers for his interruption, addressed Cyrus, “My king! I promised you long ago that, as god has given me into your hands, I would protect your house from danger to the best of my ability.”
The king nodded his acceptance not only of the truth of this proposition but also of the implicit reassurance that what Croesus was about to say would be both truthful and in Cyrus’ own best interest. Croesus continued, “The bitterness of my own sufferings has taught me always to be keen-sighted of dangers. If you deem yourself an immortal, and your army an army of immortals, my advice will doubtless be wasted upon you.” Here Cyrus rolled his eyes impatiently at this gentle reminder not only of his own humanity; but also of the humanity of his thousand-strong regiment of personal bodyguards whom he’d recently given the nickname, ‘the Immortals’.
Yet, although Cyrus was by now persuaded that he was indeed the Son of Heaven, he was nonetheless still perfectly well aware of his physical mortality; this needless reminder irritated him; although it did remind him of one task which needed attending to before he finally engaged the Scythians.
Observing his irritation Croesus continued quickly, “But if you feel yourself to be a man, and a ruler of men, then first lay this to heart, that there is a wheel on which the affairs of men revolve, and its movement forbids the same man to be always fortunate.” Again Cyrus silently nodded his agreement as again he recognized the wisdom of Croesus’ statement. From his own experience he knew that a slave could become a king; and from his own part in Croesus’ sad history, he also knew that a king could just as easily become a slave. Even the Son of Heaven could not afford to completely throw caution to the winds.
Encouraged once more, Croesus continued softly, “Now, my judgment runs counter to the judgment of your other counsellors.” Here he waited for an instant; almost expecting objections from Cyrus’ officers; but they remained silent and waited to hear what Croesus had to say, for they were all as convinced as Cyrus was of this man’s wisdom and holiness; as Croesus continued, “For if you allow the enemy into your country, consider the risk you run! Lose the battle, and your whole kingdom is lost; for assuredly, the Massagetae, if they win, will not return to their homes, but will push forward against the states of your empire.”
Cyrus had not thought about it that way; he imagined what he would do if he were in the Massagetae queen’s situation. He decided that Croesus; this king who had now become his own personal slave, and who had already shown himself to be the wisest of all mortals and his best advisor; was once again perfectly correct.
“There is much sense in what you say, Croesus…” Croesus saw his advantage and pressed his point, “Even if you win the battle, you gain far less here than if you were across the river, where you can follow up your victory.”
Cyrus’ eyes widened as the truth of this statement struck him; his mind already working rapidly; conceiving just how he might take advantage of such a situation, even as Croesus described it to him, “Rout their army on the other side of the river, and you may push at once into the heart of their country.” The holy man looked Cyrus in the eye as he added, with something of a sparkle in his own eyes, “Besides, would it not be an intolerable disgrace for Cyrus, the son of Cambyses, to yield ground to a mere woman? My advice therefore, is that we cross the river, and push forward as far as they fall back, then seek to get the better of them by stratagem.”
Cyrus was again astounded by the wisdom of Croesus’ words. Again he was absolutely correct; of course it would do his reputation irreparable damage if it should ever be said about him that he, the Son of Heaven, retreated from a mere woman’s threats.
“Croesus,” he said, his growing admiration for the old man showing clearly in his tone of voice, “Once again your words are filled with wisdom! And I’ve no doubt you already have a plan…?”
The old man did not disappoint him, ”Sire,” he said, “I hear the enemy are unacquainted with the good things on which the Persians live and have never tasted the great delights of life.” Cyrus nodded; he had heard this from his own spies too. Croesus continued, “Let us prepare a feast for them in our camp; let many sheep be slaughtered; let the wine-cups be filled and let all manner of exquisite dishes be prepared and then, leaving behind us our worst troops to make a show of defence, let us fall back towards the river. Unless I am very much mistaken, when they see all the good food and drink set out they will forget everything else and fall to. Then all that remains is for us to do our parts manfully.”
Again the king was delighted with Croesus’ suggestion. Smiling at the old man with genuine affection, he said, “Croesus, I am so happy that I spared your life and that I now have you with me… and I’m glad that you’re on my side, for I would not wish to fight another enemy such as you!” Then he turned to a nearby herald and said, “Herald, you are to inform Queen Tomyris that we shall accept her offer; she may retire while we cross the river.” Then, as the herald left to obey him, Cyrus turned once more to Croesus, and said, “Croesus, my friend, I have decided that you are far too valuable an asset to risk in this engagement, so I’m sending you back to Agbatana with my son Cambyses.”
This was the other task of which Croesus’ quip about his humanity had also reminded him. Tomyris had been quite correct; he was really more interested in her territory than in her; yet he would have been willing to make her his wife, as the mother of his son had died some years ago, and now he sorely missed having a partner who could deal with all those things which would only yield to a woman’s touch. Especially he thought, a little ruefully, where those things concerned a son who was nearing manhood. Indeed, Cyrus had brought the young prince with him on this expedition to show him something of the world and to give him some first-hand knowledge of the territory he was destined to rule.
Turning now to this son, Cambyses, who was present at all Cyrus’ staff-meetings with his officers on this expedition, he took a large golden signet ring from his left hand and, looking solemnly into his son’s eyes, gave him the ring, saying, “Cambyses, my son; in front of these witnesses, I make you my heir; I cannot afford to risk losing you in this battle either; you are to go with Croesus to Agbatana… and if anything should happen to me in this coming struggle you are to respect him as you would your own grandfather, and treat him well, for we already owe much to his sound advice!”
Cambyses nodded obediently, and then, smiling broadly, he turned to Croesus, delighted with this opportunity to learn more about the world by spending time in this wise old man’s company. What stories he would be able to tell! Like most children of his age, Cambyses virtually lived for stories. The pair took their leave of their king to prepare for their journey back to Agbatana, and then Cyrus ordered his generals to prepare to cross the river.
Shopping is not anymore what is used to be. Remember buying biscuits loose by the ounce and the shopkeeper knowing you by name? All gone now. A typical experience is now often bereft of contact with anyone, unless through a person with trolley rage. By the time one fights for parking with the usual hoons giving the two finger greeting, the tone is set and with grim determination one sets forth for the task ahead.
The wrenching of a trolley out of a long row of tightly jammed together stainless brothers is just the beginning. Of course after one goes through the one way electronic gates, the trolley decides to go off at a tangent when pushed, and as the return through the gates for another one has now been barred, one sadly tries to ‘shop’ with a dysfunctional trolley.
Silently one trundles through row after row of vegetables that are often now pre-peeled and mayonnaised, perhaps even pre-digested. Most meticulously sealed and ready to throw out. Lucky that the onions and carrots are still recognizable, so are beans and celery. On the left are the delicatessen and fish counters. By this time the trolley has been loaded with some items and now obstinately refuses to go straight at any cost and the hapless shopper is forced to counter this by pushing from the side and aiming for the next isle totally askew. This means that one side of the trolley is further away from the shopper than the other side. To compensate for this discrepancy, the pusher has to cross one foot over the other occasionally in order not to end up on floor.
With some basic maths and luck one might end up at the delicatessen side. After waiting to be served, and being the only customer with a cramp in one leg, a large bearded lady tells you to get a ticket. Finally: three hundred grams of double smoked ham, please. The bearded lady rubs a plastic bag between kransky like fingers, blows in it, sticks her hand in it and turns bag inside out. Now, ( get a little closer to the screen now) this is silver platter stuff and ultimate platinum service. She grabs a fistful of double smoked ham and forces it in the inside out bag, kneading the item unconscious and to a pulp. Will four hundred fifty grams be ok? Meekly, yes ok. Anything is alright now, hoping Mental Health will not be necessary.
Next, the dairy products need to be bought and isle after isle of the most miserable items are limbed through, also traversing past acres of toilet papers called ‘symphony’ (with a hint of Ludwig’s 9th and oh so choral) and ‘confidence’, then through a puddle of spilled mock vanilla slush. One finally arrives at the butter, frozen foods and cheese section. Bedlam here. Why are the isles so full of shoppers? What is it that seems to draw and fascinate shoppers inexorably to all those frozen boxes? Do they come here for a good read like to a library? One shopper is deeply immersed in studying the instructions on a frozen instant lasagne box while her three year old is scooping violent crumble bars out of a huge sack.
The only way to put up with this punishment and unrelenting abuse is to take a leaf out of how I bravely try to get even with the abusers.
I want to share this with you.
Go for ‘specials’ that have been discounted. Not so long ago at a carnivorous Woollies store, I bought smoked salmon that was on special as well. Going through the counter I was charged the full price. Overcharged items incur full return and item given for free. Check small print near check out. Try and concentrate on items that you could get overcharged with! That is the secret. You will get them free. A win win!
So, free salmon after going to the customer desk. It is important NOT to tell cashier at check out about mistake but calmly pay up and get refund and free item from customer service after. As you have been overcharged, show some indignation.
So, back I went for another smoked salmon. Another refund and more free salmon. I did this until I collected 2 kilos. This is all legit. Oddly enough, Helvi is not impressed by my canny devices to balance the injustice heaped on shoppers. I have now exploited this many times with different items and pride myself as a modern Robin Hood of the Shopping Mall. I always check for mistakes and the girls at the desk know me by now and are powerless, also don’t care.
Those trolleys of course are abused by hoodlums who skate them away for miles, across kerbs and open wastelands. Helicopters fly overhead, tracing them. Reward posters for errant trolley are on telegraph poles. Suburbia and shopping malls have become war zones.
Window Dresser's Arms, Pig & Whistle 