By Theseustoo

Digital Food Stylist – Warrigal

Croesus had lined up his army on a low hill overlooking the coastal city of Sinope; on the Euxine Sea. They had arrived the previous evening. Now, as the sun started to climb above the blood-red horizon, well fed and rested, they were drawn up in battle formation, awaiting only their king’s command to attack the city. As Croesus sat on his horse in the centre of the front rank, intensely regarding the town which was their goal, Sandanis rode up to him,

“Your majesty has chosen the ground very well…” he said, “This region is called Pteria; it is the strongest position in all Cappadocia; if we defeat the Syrians here and capture their city of Sinope, the rest of Cappadocia will soon fall, giving us a strong base to defend against Cyrus, who will surely come in response to our invasion…“

Croesus nodded silently; his mind already focussed on the battle ahead. To the trumpeter at his side, he quietly said,

“Sound the advance!”

At this the trumpeter played a brief fanfare; repeated it twice and then concentrated on keeping close to his king so he could relay his king’s orders to the army as they marched determinedly towards the poorly-defended city.

***   *****   ***

It had not been much of a battle, thought Sandanis as he watched his men looting the city. Indeed he’d been surprised how poorly defended such a crucial city had been. Although her walls were high and strong, yet they were ill-maintained; worse still, her menfolk had become fat, lazy and careless as the result of several generations of peaceful trade between Lydia and the Asian Greeks. They had not been anticipating any attack, let alone an attack from what had hitherto been the friendly trading nation of Lydia. Croesus’ cavalry simply rode into town through the open gate, followed closely by the Lydian infantry and rapidly seized control of all strategically important administrative centres. Completely unprepared for Croesus’ attack, Sinope’s small garrison quickly capitulated.

But Sandanis realized that Sinope occupied a strategically crucial position on Cyrus’ trade routes; controlling all trade going through Cappadocia, which in turn was the gateway to many countries in the region. This enabled Croesus to put an effective embargo on all trade heading eastwards along the King’s Highways; the network of ancient roads which the Sumerian king, Hammurabi, had built to encourage regional trade and facilitate his government of what several centuries earlier had been the largest empire in the world.

Staging posts had been built at regular intervals along all of these smoothly-paved highways, where fresh riders and horses were permanently stationed, thus providing a reliable and speedy messenger service throughout what under Cyrus would become the Persian Empire. But if these roads were the very veins and arteries of the Empire, its heart and mind was the bureaucracy he’d established and housed within the Great Tablet House. In this huge complex of educational and administrative buildings Hammurabi had installed the whole tribe of the Magi as his court astrologers, teachers, scholars, archivists and bureaucrats; choosing the Magi specifically for the talents with which they were already particularly gifted; the result of their ages-long quest for knowledge.

The roads made trade safer and easier; and at the same time it facilitated troop movements, enabling the Great King’s armies to travel from any state in his fast-growing empire to any other state in a matter of several days, or at the most a few weeks, whereas similar journeys made before the King’s Highways were built had often taken several months. These roads were thus crucial as a means of social control for they allowed the ruler’s armies to quickly and easily reach any potential rebellion. At the same time the roads had increased the wealth which paid for the vast armies which had made the vast expanse of Hammurabi’s empire possible.

Indeed, it was accurately said that the Kings’ Highways were the net which had held first the Sumerian, and then the Assyrian Empires together; just as it now held the Persian Empire together, even though Cyrus had greatly extended her borders. Already, Sandanis now realized with a start, Cyrus had conquered more territory even than Hammurabi; and the King’s Highways now stretched unbroken as far north as the Hellespont; and almost as far south as the Sinai and now eastwards too, through Media and Persia. In spite of himself, Sandanis was very impressed at this marvel of both social and physical engineering.

But, as he supervised the blacksmiths, who were currently riveting heavy iron fetters onto the wrists and ankles of the surviving Sinopeans who were about to be sold off as slaves, Sandanis thought grimly, these roads would also make it much quicker and easier for Cyrus to reach us.

“No matter” he thought; “…we’ll be ready”.

***   *****   ***

By Theseustoo

The Council of the Areopagus was the most important decision-making body in Lacedaemonia; it had convened a special meeting to hear Croesus’ messenger. The council chamber was an enormous, circular building, inside of which circular benches, currently full of curious Spartan councillors, arose in concentric tiers around the small, central, speakers’ floor. As he entered the council chamber, the herald could not help but notice a huge bronze vase which stood off to one side just inside the chamber’s entrance.

As he walked by it, the vase towered more than two cubits over his head. He briefly wondered how the metal-workers had managed to cast such a huge item. But, if the size of the vase impressed him, its craftsmanship was superb; with its highly polished outer rim exquisitely decorated with various kinds of animals; all embossed in remarkably lifelike poses.

He regretted that he had no time to examine the huge vase more closely, however, as he was immediately obliged to take the speakers’ floor; a rather small space occupying the centre and lowest level of the chamber; and announce his master’s purpose. The circular shape of the hall and the manner in which the banks of seats rose in circular tiers under a domed roof around this spot, on which the herald now stood, had all been cunningly designed to echo and amplify his voice. Even a voice speaking in normal tones would be carried easily even to the very uppermost bank of seats right at the back of the circular building, next to the outer wall. The herald cleared his throat in what he hoped was a professional manner and then spoke,

“Croesus, king of Lydia and of several other nations, has sent us to speak to you thus…” he began formally, to ritually distance himself from the actual contents of his message, and then gave his message verbatim:

“‘Oh Lacedaemonians, the god has bidden me to make the Greek my friend; I therefore apply to you, in obedience to the oracle, knowing that you hold the first rank in Greece, and desire to become your friend and ally in all true faith and honesty…’” But just as he was about to ask for the help Croesus had sent him to request, the Archon interrupted him gently; like a true friend, saving him the humiliation of having to ask for help by offering it freely.

“Put yourself at ease, herald; for you are among friends.”

The Archon stepped forward and, warmly embracing him, welcomed the Lydian almost as if he were the bearer of valuable gifts, rather than a suppliant sent by a besieged king to beg for help. But Croesus had prepared his ground well, the herald realised, as the Archon continued,

“Well do we remember Croesus’ great kindness to us; and his generosity in supplying us with the gold we needed for the statue of Apollo which even now stands in his temple at Thornax in Laconia.”

The herald was, of course, well aware of this gift and had even planned to remind the Lacedaemonians of it, if they should seem the least bit reluctant to honour the treaty on which they had already agreed. As this was now apparently quite unnecessary; since the Archon had himself chosen to demonstrate Sparta’s gratitude by mentioning it himself; with equal grace the herald simply bowed his acceptance of the Archon’s implicit thanks, as the latter continued,

“And as you have chosen to request our aid before that of all the other Greeks, we are happy to swear oaths of fidelity to your master Croesus, whom we have long admired. We have already heard about the oracle’s reply to his inquiry concerning the duration of his kingdom; and of his need for an ally, so we have been looking forward to your visit. Since everything appears to be favourable and Croesus himself is evidently favoured by the gods, Lydia can count on help from Lacedaemonia.”

At this point the Archon gestured to indicate the huge vase beside the chamber’s entrance and said, “See here this huge vase of bronze, decorated with figures of animals all round the outside of the rim, and large enough to contain three hundred amphorae, which we commissioned as a gift for King Croesus to commemorate our alliance. As you request, the Lacedaemonian army will join Croesus in Sardis in the spring.”

“Many thanks, my Lord Archon!” replied the herald, with immense gratitude and equal relief; shaking the Archon’s right hand with both of his own, thanking him profusely, as he said, “I will inform Croesus of your reply.”

With these words, the grateful herald turned and left the council chamber to return as swiftly as possible to his master in Sardis. Help would surely follow within a day or two; if not with the ebb tide following the one he calculated he could still just catch if he hurried…

***   *****   ***

By Theseustoo

The king’s lightened mood had done the empire a lot of good, thought Sandanis, as he watched his master reading out the latest news from the oracle at Delphi. Feeling his empire threatened, Croesus immediately returned to work and, most energetically, he had quickly cleared up the huge backlog of official papers that were waiting to be signed and sealed; mostly referring to national projects, both military and civil, which could now go ahead, that had either stalled or been suspended while Croesus had wallowed in his grief.

But as he looked at Croesus now and saw the joy on his face as he burst triumphantly into the War Room, victoriously brandishing a pair of papyrus scrolls, Sandanis thought the melancholy Croesus of the past two years might have been a different man altogether.

“Well gentlemen?” the king began joyfully, unrolling one of the two scrolls, “What do you think of these latest oracles from Delphi? Listen to this,”

He began to read aloud from the scroll in a manner that clearly conveyed the evident amusement he felt about its contents; his voice was light-hearted and his manner droll as he read: “Wait till the time shall come when a mule is monarch of Media; Then, thou delicate Lydian, away to the pebbles of Hermus; Haste, oh! Haste thee away, nor blush to behave like a coward.”

Silently he waited for his officers’ reactions.

“Its mood certainly seems lighthearted your majesty…”  Sandanis responded cautiously, trying hard to share the king’s enthusiasm as he gave the monarch the benefit of his thoughts as they came to him:

“It describes your defeat, Majesty, but this can only be in jest, since it says it won’t happen until ‘a mule is monarch of Media’…” He laughed as the ridiculous image of a mule, braying loudly while seated on a throne and wearing a crown between its long ears, popped into his head, “That’s certainly an improbable event Sire; surely it can only mean that your kingdom will last forever?”

As he spoke he couldn’t help but be amazed at the extent to which the king’s mood had changed. Sandanis felt that there must surely be something more to this transformation than any natural good fortune. Surely, he thought, there must be something supernatural guiding Croesus, not only in this wonderful change in his mood and general demeanour, but also in the discovery of the only real oracles in the entire world.

“I agree your Majesty,” one the officers present chipped in, offering his support, “A mule is hardly likely ever to be made King of Media; what else could it mean but that your kingdom will last forever?”

“My own thoughts exactly!” Croesus crowed triumphantly, unable to disguise his enthusiasm, “And on top of this, as a result of the gift of two gold staters apiece that I gave to the people of Delphi, the Pythoness now grants us the right to precedence in our consultations, as well as the right to the most honourable seats at the festivals, exemption from all charges, and the perpetual right of becoming at our pleasure citizens of their town.”

The bestowing of such honours by the Pythoness, even on such a powerful king as Croesus, Sandanis knew, was unprecedented. But their meaning was rendered even more profound by the circumstances under which they were given.

Because their king had successfully discovered the only genuine oracles, Croesus’ generals all anticipated such great advantages that they agreed that it could only indicate the favour, if not the intervention of the gods themselves. And this in turn could only mean that the gods had quite evidently chosen Croesus of Lydia for their own special purpose.

Croesus had held a reputation as a holy man for a long time already; as both king and high priest, he had faithfully and diligently observed all the rituals which his exalted social position constantly demanded of him. Even in his grief, he had always given the gods their due; and was always more than generous in his frequent sacrifices and donations to all the temples, not just here in Lydia, but also everywhere he had contacts and did business. But was he really the Son of Heaven, Sandanis wondered to himself, as some of the lower ranks were already suggesting?

This was one question that Sandanis felt quite unqualified to answer; he distrusted such prophecies about the return to the world of ancient heroes, seeing in them little more than a salve for the hurt pride of the defeated. Yet he was also sure that if ever any mortal man could be said to deserve such an exalted title as ‘The Son of Heaven’, then it was Croesus. His king was generally regarded by all who knew him as a truly wise and holy man; and in the light of all these recent events, not only the king’s discovery of the only true oracles, but most particularly, the Pythoness’ reaction to that fact, it seemed to him as if even such an exalted title as this was indeed entirely warranted. Now Sandanis looked at Croesus with a new regard for him which closely approached awe, as he said, “Wonderful your majesty!” applauding these tangible results of his king’s wisdom enthusiastically, adding, “What better omen could we have been given than such friendship from the Pythoness herself? Now we must start to look for an ally among the strongest of the Greeks.”

“Indeed!” Croesus replied, “With omens like these I think we may start at once! Prepare your armies for an immediate assault on Persia’s tributaries in Cappadocia. Now Sandanis, which of the Greek states would you say is currently the most powerful?”

“Well, there’s Athens;” Sandanis replied doubtfully, “but they are experiencing severe difficulties under the tyranny of Pisistratos; Athens is presently divided into three factions; they are unlikely to be able to help.” After another moment’s thought, he said, “Currently the Lacedaemonians are by far the strongest of the Greek states.”

Croesus had already proven himself to be not only a great warrior and an irresistible conqueror, but also a wise and benevolent ruler; even to his subject states. This in turn had won him much support and loyalty even from the subject states of his empire; including the Greek states of Aeolia and Ionia. His reputation for wisdom had earned him not only much respect; it had even earned Croesus much wealth in the form of tribute and countless other gifts of rarities and treasures from all of his neighbouring states, whose rulers invariably admired his great wisdom and sought to ensure his continued goodwill towards them. Son of Heaven or not, it doesn’t matter, Sandanis decided; Croesus was a good master and a great king; he would follow Croesus to the very end; whatever that end might be.

“Very well, Sandanis,” Croesus said in determined tones, “We must persuade Lacedaemonia to help us! Scribe! Take down this message…”

***   *****   ***

By Astyages O’Theseustoo.

As always, the Pythoness received the party warmly, even displaying a polite gratitude for the gifts and tribute of the Lydian king. Servants unloaded the huge wagons while the herald, feeling the chill of a fear which made him catch his breath, so that from time to time he had to remind himself to breathe; entered the Shrine of the Oracle. Visibly trembling in the awesome presence of this living demi-goddess, the herald reverently approached the base of the raised dais which stood in front of the reputedly bottomless abyss where dwelt the earth-gods from whom the Pythoness received and relayed her pronouncements.

Silently the Pythoness spread her arms over the abyss; turning her face towards the heavens as she sought to enter the sacred trance in which she was able to hear the voices of the gods. After several long minutes of deep meditation, the demi-goddess turned around once more and looked not so much at, as through the visibly trembling herald; her glazed expression quickly changing into a cold, hard and fearsome visage as the god possessed her.

Her demeanour was haughty, imperious and intimidating as the Pythoness’ raised eyebrows now silently demanded of the messenger what he required of her. Finally mastering his fear, which the Pythoness’ display of mystical powers had only increased, by pushing them right down inside himself, the herald conquered his natural feelings of intimidation at the august presence of the gods within the Pythoness. Then, taking a deep breath in order to still his visible trembling, he bravely addressed the now god-possessed and trance-inspired Pythoness:

“Croesus, King of Lydia and several other countries,” he began, “believing that these are the only true oracles in all the world, has sent you such presents as your discoveries deserved. He now inquires of you how long his empire will flourish; he also wishes to know if he should go to war with the Persians and if so, should he strengthen himself by the forces of a confederate?”

The Pythoness nodded once silently and then turned her back on the messengers to commune once more with the spirits of the abyss. Presently she turned back again; her eyes now staring, blank and unseeing, into empty space, as from the edge of the abyss, she delivered her answer in a strangely masculine voice whose unnatural volume and deep echoing quality was, so the herald thought, the unmistakable sign of her possession by the god.

The Pythoness’ response, however, was delivered in an unknown tongue and the messenger could make nothing of it whatsoever, although he was personally familiar with several of the region’s languages. This must be the tongue of the very gods themselves, the messenger thought in awe, as he watched the Pythoness’ response being recorded by a scribe and interpreted by an acolyte, who wrote down its meaning on a piece of papyrus and passed it to him.

Suddenly he was startled out of his reverie, as he realized the acolyte was indeed actually speaking to him; in fact she was patiently explaining, for the second time, the oracle’s response, which was written on the small papyrus scroll the acolyte had just handed him.

“Tell Croesus of Lydia, the Son of Alyattes,” the girl was saying, “…that his empire will flourish until a mule sits on the throne of Persia; he must ally himself with the strongest of the Greeks and that if he attacks Cyrus he will destroy a mighty empire.”

Finally, when she had finished giving her answer, her eyes closed and the Pythoness’ head fell forwards onto her breast almost as if she had lost consciousness; yet she remained standing, apparently insensible to everything but her own inner voices as, in her still-entranced condition, she now contemplated the full meaning and significance of the new knowledge which had just been imparted to her by the god.

Taking the scroll from the acolyte as the goddess fell once more into her trance the herald realized almost immediately that the Pythoness was again lost in mystical contemplation. A few moments later, he realized that his audience with the oracle had ended and, bowing repeatedly to the apparently unconscious goddess, he backed quickly out of the temple to begin his return journey to Lydia. His master, he knew, would surely be very pleased with this news and was certain to reward him very generously, so he was eager to bring it to him as swiftly as possible.

***   *****   ***

By Astyages or Theseustoo

Man, the Pythoness realized, was thus but an idea in the mind of God, who endlessly spun stories to amuse himself. Indeed, there were times when the pythoness suspected the gods of having a very strange sense of humour and actually deriving amusement from the delusions under which humans constantly suffered; misled as they almost invariably were by the illusions created for them by the very nature of their physical form; and deceived yet again by the unavoidable limitations of their merely physical means of perception. And on top of all of these illusions, they were oh, so eager to further mislead each other…

The presence of the spirits, which some called gods and others called ‘daemons’ or ‘teachers’, was, the Pythoness knew, imminent in and through all existence, corporeal and spiritual. She knew too that even these two concepts, the Physical and the Spiritual were in fact human constructions; and that in reality they were neither separate nor separable, except in the thought and speech of deluded human beings; rather they were two sides of the same coin. Every ‘thing’ was part of the Whole; and everything, she knew, implied its opposite; for everything becomes its opposite; and even the struggle to slow down or prevent this process only facilitates it. Even existence and non-existence implied each other; the one could not possibly ‘exist’ without the other.

The Pythoness shook herself out of her reverie; for it was time to deal with the physical realm once more. In any case, it was true, she reminded herself, as she frequently did, that the temple certainly benefited from the gifts the inquirers now traditionally brought as payment for her oracular services; and so the priesthood did not try too hard to enlighten them.

And if the Pythoness herself felt an occasional twinge of guilt at the manner in which the priesthood allowed such ignorant, if popular perceptions of the gods to persist; in spite of their superstitious nature; she did not allow it to take root too deeply in her soul. The gods, she knew, would enlighten poor benighted humanity in their own good time and nothing either she nor the priesthood could do would either hasten or delay that process by as much as the blink of an eye.

The persistent ignorance of her inquirers, and indeed, of humanity in general, was not so much the result of a lack of teaching, she knew; for humanity had always had teachers both human and daemonic; rather it was the lack of a desire to learn anything new. After all her years of experience as a counsellor, the Pythoness had finally understood that most people insisted on seeing things solely in the light of their own prejudices; that they habitually refused to see anything new. Even when a new thought or idea is clearly expounded; or clearly demonstrated and explained to them they would actually choose not see it; simply denying its existence at all; or else, when they could no longer deny its existence, they would call it ‘madness’; or ‘heresy’; or even ‘blasphemy’; and simply condemn new ideas out of hand before even giving themselves a chance to understand it.

Indeed, she knew that this recalcitrance was especially true whenever they had a problem. For, more often than not, the answers to their problems involved the inquirers doing things they did not want to do; and although she did her very best to point them in the right direction, she often knew right from the start that few, if any, of them would ever think about doing what was necessary, even if it were to save them from destruction.

How then, she had often wondered when she had finally donned the mantle of ‘Pythoness, could such recalcitrant folk as these ever hope to conceive of the true nature of God? She had eventually learned that the only means she could use in order to achieve a positive outcome to their problems; in cases where this was at least possible; was by deception: She must phrase her prognostications in such a manner that the enquirer would inevitably choose the road to their own spiritual progress in spite of themselves. It was a crude tool, she thought, but it often worked…

Clearly enough, the crude and unsubtle kind of mentality which imagines the gods can be bought for any price, could not possibly understand that a god is infinitely above and beyond all physical wants or needs; and not the least bit prone to either human vanity or human folly; so they neither feel nor respond to human emotions. Thus, she knew, they are not motivated by the same concerns as merely mortal human beings.

She sometimes wondered whether humankind would ever understand that, on those extremely rare occasions when the gods actually do intervene in the affairs of mortals, their interventions are usually the result of the infinite pity they feel for the incredible backwardness and recalcitrance of human nature…

Yet the Pythoness even empathized with all her inquirers’ weaknesses, which she realized were not always wilful, but often resulted from the limitations of their humanity. Indeed she felt compassion for all humanity, just as she had been taught in her mystical and entranced state, while communing with the god. She had compassion, even for all those who constantly deluded themselves with their own all-too-human ideas of just whom and what ‘the gods’ are for she knew that, in any case, the true nature of the gods could only ever be apprehended after many, many years of gruelling mental, physical and spiritual training; far beyond the capacity of most ordinary mortals, because it required a thoroughgoing and rigorous honesty about oneself and one’s own motives, of which most ordinary mortals are quite incapable.

But the Pythoness and her priesthood were not like most ordinary mortals. They were a special breed of human being; the messengers of the gods. As such they were obliged to be the most disciplined of all people; and the most ardent students of all matters, spiritual and mundane. These time-constraints imposed upon them by the requirements of their studies were far from the only restrictions imposed on the priestesses, scribes and acolytes: relationships with men, of course, were quite out of the question. Even their nearest relatives were discouraged from visiting them unnecessarily, as they tended to distract their attention from their studies.

Few indeed are the men and women who feel themselves drawn to such a cloistered and sedentary existence; but those who are drawn to it are very often absolutely devoted; and no-one was more devoted than the Pythoness herself.

Among even the best of these students, there were fewer still that had both the intellectual capacity and the personal discipline it took to study as broadly and as deeply as was necessary to even remotely approach the level of insight and wisdom necessary to perform as the Pythoness. Few indeed had the perseverance required to meditate on their lessons deeply enough to develop the great depth of philosophical insight which an oracle must have in order not only to see the regular patterns behind the almost infinite sequences of events recorded in Humanity’s history, but also to be able to understand those patterns and what they actually mean.

Only by developing a thorough knowledge and profound understanding of the past was it possible to understand the true meaning of the present moment in time; and only with a complete and thorough understanding of the present can it ever become possible to learn how to predict the future. And even then, any oracle must understand that the nature of any prediction was never that of an entirely fixed future, but of probable outcomes, which often largely depended on some determined action or other on the part of the inquirer for their fulfilment; or perhaps, for the avoidance of their fulfilment, in cases of predicted catastrophes.

Of course she was aware that this pitiful messenger from King Croesus knew nothing of all this, nor did he much care. So far as he was concerned, the Pythoness was a demi-god with the power to know and understand the minds not only of mere humans, but also of the very gods themselves. As such she was thus almost as far above his ability to conceptualise as were the gods themselves. Yet it behove a demi-god, she realized, almost as much as a god, to be gracious towards mere mortal humans in their frailty.

In reality, the Pythoness knew that humanity was neither Zeus’ intention nor his creation; they were in fact created by another Titan named Prometheus, who formed them out of the soil of the Earth, and who was eternally punished for his impudence. Yet they had always been such poor and frail creatures; unlike all the other creatures on Earth, they could not cope with extreme temperatures or conditions and fell prey not only to many other animals, but also to many kinds of ailments; the worst of which was folly.

Indeed Zeus thought of them at first as an abomination; yet they seemed to thrive in spite of the huge odds against them. Their abominable nature may have been forgiven but when Zeus discovered that Prometheus, out of his pity for humanity’s fear of the darkness, had stolen fire from his very thunderbolts, the rebellious titan incurred the All-Father’s wrath and was punished in the most horrifying manner for having done so. Yet at the end of time, which the gods can see as if it were today, Zeus, so they say, will finally forgive Prometheus and release him from the rock to which he has been chained for all eternity.

Indeed after watching the progress of humanity for several centuries even the gods themselves could only marvel at the progress they had actually managed to make, even in spite of themselves and all their folly. So finally Zeus had decided that since humanity did not actually ask to be created, it was not entirely to blame for its flaws, which he often managed to transcend anyway… Even Zeus had ultimately become quite fascinated by these unusual creatures; indeed it was as easy to admire humanity’s good qualities as it was to despise their bad ones. And Hera, the Mother of Heaven, and the Queen of Compassion, gave her bounty to all, and most generously to humanity, for she admired the courage they showed in the face of adversity.

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!

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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.

By Theseustoo

Long, long ago, in the ancient land of Lydia, there was once a king named Candaules, descended from Alcaeus the son of Heracles, whom the Greeks knew by the name of Myrsilus. The first king of this dynasty was Agron, son of Ninus, grandson of Belus, and great-grandson of Alcaeus; Candaules, son of Myrsus, was destined to be the last. The kings who had reigned before Agron were descendants of Lydus, son of Atys, from whom the people of the land, previously known as the Meonians, took the name of Lydians.
The Heraclides, descendants of Heracles and the slave-girl of Jardanus, had been entrusted by these princes with the management of affairs and eventually obtained the kingdom because of an oracle. Their rule endured for twenty-two generations of men, a space of five hundred and five years; during the whole of which period, from Agron to Candaules, the crown descended in a direct line from father to son.
Now, strange as it may seem, especially in an age where most royal marriages were often largely political arrangements, Candaules was actually head-over-heels in love with his own wife; in fact, he was so besotted by her that he thought she was the most beautiful woman in the whole world. Perhaps from a desire to have someone else witness his good fortune in having such a beautiful wife he conceived a desire to share his wife’s beauty with a friend. This peculiar fancy would have strange and far-reaching consequences.

In Candaules’ household guard there was a certain captain by the name of Gyges, the son of Dascylus, who was greatly favoured by the king. Candaules habitually entrusted all of his most important affairs to this man. To Gyges also, Candaules incessantly extolled the beauty of his wife. One day, when he had been elaborately describing the beauty of his queen, Candaules fancied he saw a sceptical look in Gyges’ eye and said,
“I see you do not believe what I tell you of my lady’s loveliness; but come now, since men’s ears are less credulous than their eyes, let us contrive some means whereby you may see her naked.”
Now, among the Lydians it is considered a great disgrace, even among men, to be seen naked. Gyges was shocked at the very thought of what his king was suggesting; he exclaimed,
“What you are saying is most unwise, master! You want me to behold my mistress naked? Do you think that a woman puts off her modesty with her clothes? Our fathers in ancient times distinguished right and wrong plainly enough and it is wisdom on our part, to submit to being taught by them. There is an old saying, ‘Let each look only on his own’. I’ll freely admit that your wife is the fairest of all woman-kind… Only I beg you, please do not ask me to do wickedly.”
Thus Gyges tried to decline the king’s proposal, trembling visibly at the thought of some dreadful evil which might befall him as a result, should he agree to the king’s wishes.
But the king was insistent; he replied,
“Courage, friend; I’m not trying to test your loyalty to me; and you need not fear that your mistress will do some mischief to you. I will arrange things so that she shall not even know that you have looked upon her. You must hide behind the open door of the chamber in which we sleep. When I enter to go to bed she will follow me. Near the entrance there is a chair on which she will lay her clothes one by one as she takes them off. You will thus be able to peruse her person at your leisure. Then, when she is moving from the chair toward the bed and her back is turned, you will be able to slip out before she sees you.”
Though they may seem like mere whims, the desires expressed by kings are not idle words but commands; feeling trapped, Gyges could only acquiesce. Reluctantly he agreed to carry out the king’s plan, hoping that everything would turn out just as Candaules had planned and that no harm would come of it.
Before he retired for the evening Candaules led Gyges to his hiding-place. At his usual bedtime, the king retired to his bed-chamber and he was followed a minute or so later, by his queen. Unaware that she was being watched, the queen casually undressed. Slipping off her garments one by one, she folded them and laid them on the chair, just as Candaules had said she would, while Gyges watched from behind the door, hardly daring to breathe. Finally the queen turned her back and moved toward the bed as Gyges seized his chance and stealthily slipped out through the door.
However, unbeknown to Gyges, the queen had seen him leave out of the corner of her eye, but, instantly divining what had happened, she decided that she would have her revenge upon the husband who had so shamed her… and so she made not the least sign that she had seen anything amiss.
In the morning, as soon as the sun rose, the queen chose her loyalest and most faithful companions from among her retinue and prepared them all for what she now planned to do. She had often had cause to summon Gyges to confer with him for some purpose or other, so when she summoned him into her presence that morning he obeyed unquestioningly, suspecting nothing out of the ordinary. But when she addressed him he was even more shocked than he had been at the thought of the previous night’s events.
“Take your choice, Gyges, of the two courses which are open to you. Either you must slay Candaules, and thereby become my lord, and gain the Lydian throne, or you must die this moment in his place. Thus you will never again behold what is not lawful for you, even at the command of your master! Either he must perish by whose counsel this thing was done, or you, who saw me naked, and so broke our customary laws, must die.”
Upon hearing these words, Gyges stood for awhile in mute astonishment. When he had recovered his wits sufficiently to speak he implored the queen not to force him to make so harsh a choice. But the queen was adamant. Realizing that he implored in vain, and that he must either kill or be killed, he chose life for himself, and replied to his queen with this question:
“If it must be so, and you compel me against my will to put my lord to death, come; let me hear how you will have me set on him.”
“Let him die,” she answered, “in the same room where he disgraced me and showed me naked to you… when he is asleep.”
When night fell, the queen led him into the royal bed-chamber, placed a dagger in his hand, and hid him behind the door just as he had done the previous night. When the king entered, Gyges waited until he was sure the king had fallen asleep, then silently crept towards the bed and struck him through the heart with his dagger.
As the famous poet, Archilochus the Parian, who lived about the same time, mentioned in a poem written in iambic trimeter verse, this was how the wife and kingdom of Candaules passed into the possession of Gyges and how the succession passed from the dynasty of the Heraclides to the Mermnadae.
The people of Lydia, however, were enraged at the slaughter of their king and flew to arms against the usurper; but after an uncomfortable civil struggle between the people and the followers of Gyges and the queen, they eventually allowed themselves to be persuaded that if the oracle at Delphi should confirm Gyges as king, then king he should remain; otherwise he would relinquish the throne to the Heraclides. The oracle, when consulted, decided in his favour and Gyges became king of Lydia. The Pythoness, however, added that, in the fifth generation after Gyges, vengeance would come for the Heraclides; but neither the Lydians nor their princes took much notice of this prophecy until it was fulfilled.

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By Theseustoo

[Editor’s note: Short of reading time but I have picked out some nice pictures with the aid of a few key words.]

Since the most ancient times the sovereignty of Lydia had belonged to the Heraclides; the dynasty which had been founded centuries ago by the god-like Heracles, whom the poets all say was the earthly son of the All-father; Almighty Zeus himself. However, the Lydian crown eventually passed out of their hands and through sheer chance it fell into the hands of the Mermnadae; the Lydian-born family of Croesus which had originally been founded by Gyges; Croesus’ own fifth ancestor.

This man had been the captain of the guard of the final king of the Heraclides dynasty, whose name was Candaules. This king had been so proud of his wife’s beauty that he had wished to confirm his belief that she was the most beautiful of all women. To this end he had persuaded Gyges to hide behind his wife’s chamber door before she retired, and spy on her as she undressed for bed. Unfortunately, however, he had been seen by the queen, who, in her desire for revenge, had eventually goaded him into murdering her husband, the king.

Thus Gyges usurped Candaules’ throne and stole his wife; putting an end to the Heraclides dynasty and removing the descendants of Heracles from power forever. The incident which had so outraged his queen, however, was in no way Gyges’ fault. In truth it was providence itself, rather than any base or ignoble ambition, which had prompted his action; and although at first there was a huge public outcry against the regicide, eventually the decision of the Delphic Oracle had vindicated him and the people of Lydia were persuaded finally to accept him as their monarch. Thus after several generations of Greek rule under the Heraclides, the throne of Lydia was finally returned to Lydian hands.

Croesus, son of Alyattes, was the fifth Mermnadae King of Lydia; succeeding to his father’s throne at the age of thirty-five. Now, ever since Gyges had freed the Lydians from the Greek yoke, the Mermnadae kings of Lydia had wondered how they might revenge themselves for the indignities they had suffered during Lydia’s prolonged period of subjection to Greek occupation and rule. However, it would not be until the reign of the legendary and fabulously wealthy, King Croesus, that Lydia at last had the opportunity to do something about it. As often happens, revenge and ambition went hand in hand for Croesus; and as he grew in wealth and experience, so too grew both his desire for revenge and his ability to accomplish it; as a result, he developed imperial ambitions.

Turning his armies first against the Greek cities in Ionia and Aeolia, Croesus attacked Ephesus. When he laid siege to the city, the Ephesians made an offering of the whole city to their goddess, Artemis by stretching a rope from the town wall to her temple, a good seven furlongs distant from the ancient city. Unwilling to incur the wrath of the Ephesians’ dreaded and bloodthirsty goddess, Artemis; Croesus was thus obliged to spare the lives of the city’s inhabitants.

After this he made war on every Ionian and Aeolian state one after the other, on any pretext he could find or invent, regardless of how flimsy the excuse. Thus he eventually made himself master of all the Greek cities in Asia west of the River Halys, forcing them to become his vassals and tributaries until his interest in war and conquest waned after the tragic death of his son and heir, Atys, whom he mourned for two full years.

Eventually however, the news which had spread through the region like wildfire, of Cyrus’ meteoric rise to power in Persia, would drag the monarch out of mourning and return his wandering attention once again to the land of the living as Persia very suddenly began to expand the boundaries of her own empire, to eventually become the only force in Asia with both the numbers and the leadership to represent a threat to the Lydians. Lydia’s recently conquered and newly subjugated empire was now at its zenith; her warriors had a well-earned a reputation for being the best and bravest in all Asia at that time; as the power of the Assyrians had been effectively nullified generations earlier by the Median revolt.

When Cyrus’ rose to power, he soon conquered all of the smaller states around Media and Persia, which had hitherto been tributaries of Babylon and her Assyrian rulers. Asia was thus now effectively divided into two regions: the western region, consisting of all the Ionian and Aeolian cities to the west of the River Halys, now ruled by the fabulously wealthy Croesus; and the eastern region, which was now ruled by the upstart Cyrus of Persia who had overthrown the Medes who had hitherto ruled Asia ever since it was first conquered by Astyages’ father and Cyrus’ own great-grand-father, the bellicose Cyaxares.

It was Cyaxares who had finally driven out the horde of Scythian invaders whose incursion into Media had caused a twenty-eight year interruption in their on-going revolutionary war with the Assyrians. Eventually the cunning of Cyaxares had prevailed; he had all of the Scythian leaders murdered at a treacherous feast; after which the rest of the invaders were chased right out of Asia. The Assyrians too, were then finally defeated and forced to flee from their capital city, Nineveh, until that too was taken by the Medes.

The remainder of the Assyrian nobility then fled to Babylon where they established a government in exile in what was now their final remaining stronghold, behind her high and famously impenetrable blue-glazed walls.

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