Before Picture: The Median Empire

By Theseustoo

When the defeat of the Median armies was reported to the astonished Astyages it struck him like a bolt from the blue; it seemed as if the Medes had all spontaneously decided that they had suffered too much at Astyages’ hands and had thus all simultaneously decided to join the Persian revolt.
Astyages was not unaware of their suffering; far from it; indeed he derived a great deal of personal pleasure from inflicting it; but he was very surprised that they had revolted; he had thought that they had been well and truly cowed into total submission to his god-given kingly authority; and that their spirits had been so completely broken to his will that they had not the courage to revolt. But even more surprising than this was the fact that his spies had not discovered the plot and reported it to him before now.
“What? My whole army turned tail and fled?” Astyages yelled incredulously as he heard the tale of the total rout of all his armies. No! It couldn’t be, he thought desperately to himself, it was impossible. How could his spies not have known there was something wrong? Were they ignorant of the plot, he wondered, or were they perhaps complicit in it?
He made a mental note to have all of his current spies executed and replaced. If they were ignorant of the plot, he thought, it must mean that they had been deliberately kept ignorant; and that in turn implied that his current spies must all be well known to everyone as such and thus useless as spies; those who had planned this revolt had easily avoided them. They should have known; the king thought to himself darkly; he should have been warned…
And what if they had known about the plot and had not reported it, he asked himself. That would mean they were complicit in it, and disloyal to their king; treasonous indeed. No, they were probably ignorant, he decided, or this terrified spy would not be here now, cowering in front of his master in fear for his very life, due to the nature of what he had just reported. This man knew only too well that messengers who were unfortunate enough to be the bearers of especially bad tidings were sometimes sacrificed in order to prevent the news from spreading panic among the populace and thus adding more chaos to the disaster. Yet he had brought the message in spite of the obvious danger to himself, the king realized; so Astyages decided to let this spy live; but only this one…
But Astyages was not about to give what remained of his city’s population any time to panic; decisive action, he knew, was the only thing which could possibly save his kingdom now… if anything could! As for this slave; if he killed him, he knew it would look as if he were trying to cover up bad news and may actually start a panic inadvertently. Yes, he thought, of all his spies, this one could keep his life, he decided; for the time being at least…
“Well it will give Cyrus no joy!” the king declared bitterly as, turning to the captain of his guards, he issued his orders,
“Call the Assembly; every available man still capable of using a weapon in this city is to arm himself with whatever he can and assemble to fight the Persians!”
As the guard captain nodded and left immediately to obey his king, Astyages next addressed the guards who were on duty on either side of the door and posted at regular intervals around the throne-room; and as he left the room he casually instructed them, “Guards; arrest these Magi and have them impaled in front of the city gates immediately!”
Perhaps for the first time in their about-to-be truncated lives the three Magi advisors were utterly speechless as the guards moved forward as one to surround the king’s former advisors, then seized them and dragged them, screaming inarticulate protests and kicking their legs in a desperate but futile attempt to resist; as, between them, the guards virtually carried the doomed astrologers to their unforeseen, untimely and most excruciating end.

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The regular Persian and Median infantry: From the Circle of Ancient Iranian Studies website

Spurred on by Astyages’ own personal bodyguards, who now whipped them mercilessly into the fray; the people of Agbatana, now comprised mostly of old men and young boys armed with picks, hoes, mattocks, axes and other pieces of farming or kitchen equipment or perhaps an occasional piece of antique armour or weaponry; now put up only a little more resistance than had the Median armies to Cyrus’ forces. Meanwhile the women cowered in the city’s Temples, tying themselves to the altars with fragile wreaths of flowers; thus dedicating themselves as suppliants to their gods: Should their city be invaded and conquered, their conqueror must refrain from harming them or risk breaking one of the most ancient and sacred of all laws; the law of sanctuary; and thus risk incurring the wrath of the gods.
Yet despite their extremity and their terror of Astyages’ guards, many still deserted to the Persians as soon as they found an opportunity. The Persians, for their part, together with those Medians who had already deserted, encouraged their fellow-Medes not to fight but instead to throw down their weapons. Most of those who could obey their relatives within the ‘enemy’s’ ranks did as they were bid and surrendered; and they were immediately welcomed very warmly into the Persian ranks.
Those few Medes who still stubbornly resisted the Persian army, including most of Astyages’ own personal guard; and those few peasants who had not managed to avoid being forced to fight, were swiftly and utterly defeated. Although more blood was spilled on both sides in this battle than there had been in the first parody of a battle, the Medes were again defeated, utterly and absolutely. Finally realizing the pointlessness of opposing such overwhelming odds, even the remnant of the King’s bodyguard eventually capitulated, as Artembares finally held aloft a white rag tied to the end of a spear to indicate their submission.
Astyages was captured alive and at once enslaved; and as the blacksmith hammered the rivets into the iron chains which now imprisoned his hands and feet, he looked up to see Harpagus, his servant and Commander in Chief of all his armies, standing in front of him. Astyages was astonished when he saw that his minister was not enchained, but was walking freely among the enemy, who all hailed him as a hero as he passed. When Harpagus saw Astyages and the astonished expression on his face, he could not conceal his delight. In bantering tones, completely devoid of respect, the former servant now rudely addressed his former king, “Well then Astyages, how does it feel to be a slave?”
The defeated tyrant looked his tormentor in the eyes as he demanded bitterly, “Why do you claim the achievements of Cyrus as your own?”
“Because it was my letter which made him revolt; and so I am entitled to the credit for the whole enterprise” Harpagus replied smugly.
Astyages laughed even more bitterly when he heard this; then, with something resembling pity in his voice, he said, “In that case you are both the silliest and the most unjust of men: the silliest because when it was in your power to put the crown on your own head, you placed it on the head of another; the most unjust, because, on account of that supper you have brought slavery on the Medes, who were not to blame for it.”
Harpagus gasped in astonishment as Astyages continued, “…If you must put the crown on another’s head, rather than keep it for yourself, justice requires that a Mede, rather than a Persian, should have it. Now, however, the Medes are made slaves instead of lords, and the slaves moreover of those who, till recently, were their subjects. For a hundred and twenty-eight years Media has ruled all Asia east of the River Halys and now you hand her dominion over to the Persians!”

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Nabonidus Chronicle - A hard copy of the story

By Theseustoo

CHAPTER 6:  The Persians Revolt

Astyages was conferring with his astrologers in his throne room. On a large table the Magi had spread extensive charts of the heavens, which their tribe had painstakingly compiled over the course of many centuries. Explaining their analyses, they pointed out the meanings of the aspects between the various planets on these charts as they expounded their prognostications to their king. Currently an opposition to the planet Ares, the god of War, they felt, indicated a threat to the national security.
Suddenly the door burst open and a man whom Astyages instantly recognized as one of his spies, now dressed in a herald’s uniform, hurriedly entered the room, flanked by two guards. The spy threw himself to his knees at Astyages’ feet and touched the floor with his forehead in ritual abasement. The king was furious at the interruption,
“How dare you interrupt our conference?” the monarch demanded of the intruder; “If your reason is not a good one, your life will be forfeit!”
The spy trembled with fear; but he was undeterred and responded instantly, “The Persians are in revolt Majesty; I have come as quickly as I could to warn you; Cyrus is raising an army…”
“What’s this?” Astyages was incredulous, “In revolt you say? Very well; you may keep your head. Now, you may take a message to Cyrus for me; he is to come at once to attend me here in Agbatana!”
“At once Sire!” The spy replied, and then swiftly bowed deeply, turned and left, to return immediately to Persia with the King’s message. When he had gone, Astyages turned round to address his servant.
“Harpagus! Tell the tribal princes to assemble their armies! And have my army assemble too; you will be Commander in Chief of this expedition; take the armies and slaughter these Persian rebels.” Then, with an evil glint in his eye, he added, “Show them no mercy!”
“At once Sire!” his servant replied. Harpagus could not conceal his delight; but he didn’t have to; the king, he knew, would undoubtedly interpret his visible pleasure simply as happiness at his promotion to the position of Commander in Chief of all the Median armies; and the chance to lead this most important expedition against Persia

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The message from Astyages was not unexpected; indeed Cyrus was well prepared for this ultimatum even before the herald delivered it. His response was instantaneous and very brief:
“Tell Astyages that I shall appear in his presence sooner than he will like!” he declared. Then, as soon as the spy had left the room, he turned to the captain of his guards, “Guard! Call the Assembly! To arms!”

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A Persian nobleman

The ‘battle’ went just as Harpagus and the Princes of the Tribes had planned, much to the astonishment of Artabarzanes, the captain of the king’s own regiment. As the commanding officer of the king’s regiment he was one of very few of the Median king’s officers who had been kept ignorant of the princes’ plot. Even his own subordinate officers had known of the plan, he very soon realised, when they too deserted to the Persians. But these, he knew, were all good men, whose loyalty, not only to their country, but, he would have sworn, also their personal loyalty to himself as their commander, he would never have questioned… Yet they had kept this plot entirely secret from him. Of course; in retrospect, he realized that they really had no choice; his integrity was too well-known for the conspirators to risk being caught by attempting to subvert him.
As he watched the Median armies either feign fear and flee, or else desert en masse to their enemy, he knew he should be outraged at this betrayal, of himself as well as their country. Yet somehow, after the event, he found he could not bring himself to blame them; for he too thought of Astyages as a tyrant. Nonetheless he still felt just as bound to protect his king as he had always been by his sense of duty, as well as by his own personal sense of honour.
From earliest childhood he had been taught, like all noble Median men, that their loyalty was due first to the King, then to the people of Media and then to their own families. Yet, as he now witnessed the rout which was happening all around him, it occurred to him, even in the midst of battle, that most Medians were loyal to their families first, then to the people of Media, and only then to their king.
For what seemed like an age but which in reality was only a few minutes, Artabarzanes and his regiment bravely resisted the overwhelming Persian forces, armed with Assyrian bows and bronze-tipped arrows as well as long, bronze-tipped spears and short, wickedly-pointed daggers, also of sharpened bronze; and protected by their light wickerwork shields. The Persians, for their part, did their best to keep this small pocket of serious resistance busy without doing them any real damage, until they were finally ordered to lay down their arms by their own Commander in Chief, Harpagus, who soon arrived at the head of a large Median contingent, which had just been reinforced by a battalion of Persian troops.
When Artabarzanes and his men finally saw that Astyages’ forces had openly deserted to the Persians or else had feigned terror at the size of the Persian horde and fled, they quickly obeyed. Since further resistance was clearly futile, even Artabarzanes finally decided that discretion was the better part of valour and capitulated.
Though defeated, he felt that at least he had dishonoured neither himself, nor his position. But Artabarzanes knew that Harpagus too was a man of honour; and when he discovered that the purpose of the rebellion was to install a legitimate heir on the throne of Media, and not merely to advance the ambitions of either Harpagus or the tribal princes, he found that when given the choice, he could only support the new cause.

*

veni,vidi.

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CYRUS

By

Theseustoo/Astyages

(Continued)

Judgement of Cambyses.

By mid-morning the next day, everyone had bathed and put on their finest clothes just as Cyrus had instructed them and started to gather in the garden of Cambyses’ palace. On their arrival they found that all the wood from their previous day’s work had been used to build dozens of large bonfires, spaced at almost regular intervals all around these extensive and beautifully landscaped palace gardens. Over these fires dozens of whole cattle, sheep and goats were already being roasted on spits turned by attentive servants; all provided by Cyrus, who had personally sacrificed them himself; working since before dawn beside his own servants, and harder than any of them, to prepare this feast.

In the huge ovens of the palace kitchens, countless loaves of flat, un-leavened bread and all kinds of cakes and other delectable sweetmeats were being baked; and, when they were ready, laid on platters on nearby tables ready for Cyrus’ guests to help themselves; while other platters were carried off by servants who circulated with them among the crowd, offering them to the guests.

Soon Cyrus’ servants began to circulate with huge trays of bread and honey-cakes and silver platters, piled high with pastries while others were filled with freshly-carved slices of deliciously roasted meat; offering their treats and titbits to all of Cyrus’ guests, regardless of their social positions. Other slaves carried goatskins of wine and similarly, they circulated among the crowd, keeping the wine-cups of their guests constantly filled as they ate and drank and generally amused themselves.

At first the poorest of the people thought that they would have to wait until the end of the banquet to beg for food as they usually did in their ritual guise as beggars, whose social purpose and function was to cleanse banquets of pollution which may have been generated over the course of the evening, by taking it upon themselves. Such pollution was usually transferred to these human ‘scapegoats’ or beggars, who were often nicknamed ‘killjoys’ or ‘the scourge of banquets’, in the form of small gifts of scraps of food and drink, or occasionally small coins; in return for which, these beggars also performed a priestly function; for to beggars especially was given the power of calling down the blessings of the gods upon the host and his house-hold.

Yet they were only too keenly aware that, although they were tolerated at least to the extent that they were thus fed, more or less, where they might otherwise have starved; yet apart from a few notable exceptions no-one really liked these beggars; they paid for their livelihoods by virtual ostracism, relegated as they were to society’s margins. Indeed, beggars were often feared; for the hand that blesses can also curse. They knew that they were tolerated merely for their services as ritual cleaners; and they were only too painfully aware that another method of transferring pollutions to them was via the medium of blows. Thus, as a means of survival, being a beggar or a scapegoat was not without its own dangers.

But when these poor people eventually realized that this banquet was as much for them as for anyone else, and that they need not fear violence from anyone, instead of waiting for scraps they began to help themselves enthusiastically to all the most tempting food and drinks with which the servants still circulated; offering them freely to even these poorest of Persians with genuinely warm smiles of welcome on their faces; just as Cyrus had commanded. But these poorest of Persians were only just beginning to recover from their shock at this latest wonder when suddenly their newly-appointed leader, Cyrus, climbed up onto a small, raised platform which he’d had constructed for just this purpose, and once again started to address them:

“Fellow Persians” he began, “today’s task is quite different from yesterday’s! Today, you are all to recline on the grass; eat and drink your fill and make merry. Enjoy yourselves until your hearts are content! Let the air be filled with revelry and laughter; and let joy be unrestrained! Musicians, strike up a tune, and play merrily so those who wish to may dance and sing!”

Cyrus’ guests did not need any further bidding but fell to with a will and soon the air was filled with the sound of music and laughter as some danced and sang for the amusement of their fellow revellers while still others merely ate and drank enthusiastically, reclining at their ease on the soft grass as if they hadn’t a care in the world. Thus they spent the whole day, enjoying the warmth of the sun and the absence of toil.

Not one of them thought to ask themselves why Cyrus had sacrificed so many beasts just so they might feast and enjoy themselves so pleasantly.

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Greek mythology

By late afternoon the feasting had slowed down a little; the musicians were now playing slower and more melodic tunes as the guests began to tire of their exertions in their dancing and began to relax on the grass to quench their thirst with more wine; a luxury hitherto known only to the noblest of Persian aristocracy. Amid the continuing scenes of revelry Cyrus had a trumpeter play a brief fanfare in order to get the crowd’s attention. Then he addressed his guests once more:

“Friends! Fellow Persians! I have a question for you! I want to know which day’s work you all prefer? Today’s or yesterday’s?”

With a brief look at the other guests around him, a large, well-muscled man in his mid-thirties took it upon himself to be spokesman for the whole crowd; he stood up and with a deep laugh, began to speak:

“My Lord, the contrast is indeed striking; yesterday’s work was everything that is bad; full of toil and hardship; today’s work is everything that is good; nothing but enjoyment and pleasure!” As everyone cheered to show their agreement to this last proposition, he continued, “I think I can safely say that I speak for everyone here, when I say that we prefer today’s task to yesterday’s!”

This was immediately and enthusiastically greeted with even louder cheers and shouts of general agreement and even more applause from the crowd. With an indulgent smile Cyrus let them continue to cheer for a few moments before holding up his arms for quiet as he began to speak again:

“Men of Persia, this is how things are with you: If you choose to listen to my words, you may enjoy these and ten thousand similar delights, and never condescend to any slavish toil; but if you will not listen, then prepare yourselves for unnumbered toils as hard as yesterday’s. Now therefore follow my advice, and be free! For myself I feel that I am destined by Providence to undertake your liberation; and you, I am sure, are not inferior to the Medes in anything; least of all in bravery. Therefore I say to you, revolt from Astyages, without a moment’s delay!”

The multitude cheered and applauded again; louder even than it had for its spokesman; demonstrating its unanimous and wholehearted approval of everything Cyrus’ had said; for the Persians had long been growing weary under the tax-burden and the levies imposed upon them by their overlords, the Medes. Indeed, each year it was getting harder to meet the king’s ever-increasing demand for tribute and troops, so they were in any case just about ripe for revolution; all they had needed was a leader; and now that they had found one, they were all overjoyed.

Yet among them there was one man who did not share the general enthusiasm. He was one of Astyages’ spies; and as he listened to Cyrus’ intentions, he was so horrified by his speech that as soon as he could he quietly slipped away from the feast, unnoticed by anyone, while the revellers were still cheering loudly for their new master. As soon as the spy was off Cambyses’ property and out of sight of the revellers he broke into a run and, as fast as he could, he soon left the city gates behind far him and headed for the King’s Highway; the quickest route to Media; to report this new development to Astyages.

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CYRUS

By

Theseustoo/Astyages

(Continued)

Early the next morning the slave informed Cyrus that the tribes had assembled in the large, open square in the centre of the city which, when the city of Persepolis was first built, had been set aside specifically for that purpose. Neither the Medes nor the Persians had real marketplaces in any of their cities, because they thought it more honourable to bargain with each other in private, rather than haggling over goods and, as they some-times phrased it, ‘forswearing themselves openly in a public place like the Greeks’. Cyrus took up his position on the speaker’s dais at one end of the square and, holding his arms aloft as a signal for silence, he addressed the huge crowd:

“My fellow Persians, I have here orders from our King, Astyages…” He held up a sheet of papyrus so that the whole crowd could see it, “In it he appoints me to be your general. Since this is the case, I command you all now, each man, to go and fetch his reaping-hook; I have a task for you…”

Had anyone in the crowd challenged him to read the scroll, it would have read just exactly as Cyrus had indicated, but although he’d prepared himself for just such a challenge, as it turned out there was no need to have done so, for it never came.

Indeed, as it happened the crowd were not even the least little bit surprised by this turn of events. Ever since Persia was conquered by Cyrus’ own great-grandfather, Phraortes, the Median kings, as overlords, had used the Persian nobility to govern the Persian people for them; being content to extract a large annual tribute in the form of gold, silver and purple, as well as various kinds of cattle, grains and other comestibles, together with an annual levy of troops to help support the Median armies. As long as the Persians kept paying the tribute and sending the levies, there had been no need for the Medes to occupy Persia; and the Persians had made sure always to meet their obligations in order to avoid just such an eventuality.

Furthermore, because Persians had always deemed lying to be the most despicable of all human failings; and because innocence walks hand-in-hand with gullibility, rarely did they ever even suspect that one of their own people might stoop to anything quite as dishonourable as deception. Thus when it was put to them that Cyrus, the popular and intelligent son of the noble Cambyses, should be appointed as their master, it did not raise even the shadow of a suspicion amongst the assembled tribes that this was anything but the truth.

Thus, when Cyrus claimed that he had been appointed to be their leader by Astyages, far from being surprised, most of them were even quite pleased at the news, for it struck them as a wise appointment. After all, not only was Cyrus a highly talented man, but also Astyages’ grandson; thus the Persians all felt that the appointment was perfectly natural; indeed, the wisest heads among them had almost expected something like this to happen anyway, sooner or later, so no-one even bothered to think about questioning the veracity of Cyrus’ story.

Obediently, as soon as they were given their orders, they all dispersed, to return early the next morning, as they had been asked, each man returning carrying with him a scythe or a sickle, just as their new lord had commanded. The following morning, when everyone had finally returned Cyrus then led them to a huge tract of scrubland, between about eighteen and twenty furlongs on each side, and completely covered with black thorn bushes.

Cyrus addressed the crowd once more:

“Now, I want you to clear this whole area of these thorn bushes… this task must be completed by sunset! Tomorrow, when this field has been cleared, everyone is to take a bath and come to me again in the gardens of my father’s palace!”

The crowd immediately moved to obey Cyrus’ orders; but it was extremely arduous work and they constantly pricked themselves. Soon their hands and forearms were all covered with painful and bloody scratches from all the needle-sharp black thorns, as the men cut down the large black bushes while the women collected them together and piled them into a huge heap in one corner of the area Cyrus had roped off.

In spite of their numbers, they had to work fast to clear the area before sunset as Cyrus had instructed, but everyone pitched in and eventually they succeeded, just as the final blood-red sliver of the setting sun slipped below the horizon, and the dark of the evening quickly closed in upon them.

Finally, totally exhausted and blackened from top to toe with grime from the bushes, mixed with the sweat from their own bodies; and bloodied in many places from the countless scratches which now criss-crossed their unprotected arms and legs as they trudged wearily home through the quickly-gathering gloom; wondering as they went what their new master would want them to do tomorrow.

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Early the next morning the slave informed Cyrus that the tribes had assembled in the large, open square in the centre of the city which, when the city of Persepolis was first built, had been set aside specifically for that purpose. Neither the Medes nor the Persians had real marketplaces in any of their cities, because they thought it more honourable to bargain with each other in private, rather than haggling over goods and, as they some-times phrased it, ‘forswearing themselves openly in a public place like the Greeks’. Cyrus took up his position on the speaker’s dais at one end of the square and, holding his arms aloft as a signal for silence, he addressed the huge crowd:

“My fellow Persians, I have here orders from our King, Astyages…” He held up a sheet of papyrus so that the whole crowd could see it, “In it he appoints me to be your general. Since this is the case, I command you all now, each man, to go and fetch his reaping-hook; I have a task for you…”

Had anyone in the crowd challenged him to read the scroll, it would have read just exactly as Cyrus had indicated, but although he’d prepared himself for just such a challenge, as it turned out there was no need to have done so, for it never came.

Indeed, as it happened the crowd were not even the least little bit surprised by this turn of events. Ever since Persia was conquered by Cyrus’ own great-grandfather, Phraortes, the Median kings, as overlords, had used the Persian nobility to govern the Persian people for them; being content to extract a large annual tribute in the form of gold, silver and purple, as well as various kinds of cattle, grains and other comestibles, together with an annual levy of troops to help support the Median armies. As long as the Persians kept paying the tribute and sending the levies, there had been no need for the Medes to occupy Persia; and the Persians had made sure always to meet their obligations in order to avoid just such an eventuality.

Furthermore, because Persians had always deemed lying to be the most despicable of all human failings; and because innocence walks hand-in-hand with gullibility, rarely did they ever even suspect that one of their own people might stoop to anything quite as dishonourable as deception. Thus when it was put to them that Cyrus, the popular and intelligent son of the noble Cambyses, should be appointed as their master, it did not raise even the shadow of a suspicion amongst the assembled tribes that this was anything but the truth.

Thus, when Cyrus claimed that he had been appointed to be their leader by Astyages, far from being surprised, most of them were even quite pleased at the news, for it struck them as a wise appointment. After all, not only was Cyrus a highly talented man, but also Astyages’ grandson; thus the Persians all felt that the appointment was perfectly natural; indeed, the wisest heads among them had almost expected something like this to happen anyway, sooner or later, so no-one even bothered to think about questioning the veracity of Cyrus’ story.

Obediently, as soon as they were given their orders, they all dispersed, to return early the next morning, as they had been asked, each man returning carrying with him a scythe or a sickle, just as their new lord had commanded. The following morning, when everyone had finally returned Cyrus then led them to a huge tract of scrubland, between about eighteen and twenty furlongs on each side, and completely covered with black thorn bushes.

Cyrus addressed the crowd once more:

“Now, I want you to clear this whole area of these thorn bushes… this task must be completed by sunset! Tomorrow, when this field has been cleared, everyone is to take a bath and come to me again in the gardens of my father’s palace!”

The crowd immediately moved to obey Cyrus’ orders; but it was extremely arduous work and they constantly pricked themselves. Soon their hands and forearms were all covered with painful and bloody scratches from all the needle-sharp black thorns, as the men cut down the large black bushes while the women collected them together and piled them into a huge heap in one corner of the area Cyrus had roped off.

In spite of their numbers, they had to work fast to clear the area before sunset as Cyrus had instructed, but everyone pitched in and eventually they succeeded, just as the final blood-red sliver of the setting sun slipped below the horizon, and the dark of the evening quickly closed in upon them.

Finally, totally exhausted and blackened from top to toe with grime from the bushes, mixed with the sweat from their own bodies; and bloodied in many places from the countless scratches which now criss-crossed their unprotected arms and legs as they trudged wearily home through the quickly-gathering gloom; wondering as they went what their new master would want them to do tomorrow.

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CYRUS

By

Theseustoo/Astyages

(Continued)

Cyrus was no more surprised at the gift of a hare, when one of Harpagus’ most trusted servants had presented him with it, It was a sharp, clear morning and a light, crisp, early frost crunched underfoot; announcing to the world that summer was over and autumn had begun. A perfect morning for the hunt, thought Harpagus, as he and a servant strode briskly across the plain in search of game; a bronze-tipped arrow already nocked on the bowstring and ready to shoot from his powerful Assyrian recurved bow.

Suddenly a huge hare broke the cover of the heather which had been hiding it until Harpagus and his servant had approached too close for comfort. The endangered animal had finally decided to risk swapping the rapidly-dwindling security of its hiding place for the speed of its hind legs as its means of survival. Bursting from the dense heather just a few paces in front of Harpagus, the terrified animal raced off across the hillside away from him and his servant as fast as its huge hind legs could propel it.

But fast though he was, there was to be no salvation for this hare; the instant the animal had broken cover Harpagus had smoothly but swiftly raised his bow, aimed, intuitively allowing for windage and the speed of the animal as it sped away from him, and let fly his unerring bronze-tipped arrow all in a single graceful, fluid motion which reflected constant practice and many years’ experience.

The missile swiftly found its mark and the unfortunate animal instantly jumped straight up into the air; then fell and, after a few reflex twitches of its huge hind legs, lay still; the arrow had pierced its heart. The servant had quickly followed Harpagus’ arrow and as he retrieved his master’s quarry, he held it up triumphantly by its huge hind legs, enthusiastically admiring the felled beast, “Look at the size of this one Lord! It will make a wonderful stew for our supper!”

Harpagus laughed briefly and said, “No… I’m sorry, my friend! This one is not for the pot! I have a special purpose for this hare. It is a present for Cyrus of Persia.”

As he was speaking, Harpagus took a small razor-sharp skinning-knife from his belt and cut open the rabbit’s paunch, but instead of gutting and skinning the animal he took a small roll of parchment from inside his tunic and inserted it under the animal’s skin. Then, taking a sewing needle and thread from a small wallet he kept inside his tunic, he very carefully sewed up the animal and then smoothed down its fur to hide the stitches. Satisfied that his handiwork was now invisible, he finally gave the animal back to his servant.

“Now…” Harpagus said to his slave in a very quiet voice, although there was no-one to be seen for miles around them on this heath-covered hillside, “You are my most trusted servant; this is a special message for Cyrus; you are to give him this hare and tell him that he must paunch the animal himself; but he is to make sure he is quite alone when he does so. Is that clear?”

“Yes Lord.” The slave replied as he took the animal from his master and instantly set off at a fast trot toward the King’s Highway, which would take him directly to Persepolis, the Persian capital.

***   *****   ***

During the ten years Cyrus had spent in Persia, he had grown to manhood. Handsome, tall and straight, he was well muscled with broad shoulders and strong arms, a narrow waist and powerful thighs and calves. His size, strength and courage, as well as his habitual fairness in all of his dealings with people, not to mention the wealth and nobility of his parents’ social position had all combined to make him the most popular and admired of all the Persian aristocracy.

Indeed, it was clear to everyone who knew him that Cyrus was a man who was evidently destined to wield a great deal of influence, no matter what he should choose to do with his life. But although his father, Cambyses, had tried more than once to persuade Cyrus against a military career, and to steer him into the family business which had made his own clan so wealthy and powerful, Cyrus found that he could not maintain any genuine enthusiasm for business; though he showed a natural talent in so many areas, all he really loved to do was ride and hunt. He found it difficult to choose any one particular business speciality; accountancy was too dry and commerce seemed dishonest to him; but as his twenty-first birthday rapidly approached he knew that he would have to decide very soon; his father, Cambyses, would expect him soon to choose a profession which would help his family’s business, the business which had managed to maintain and even to increase its wealth, in spite (although some people said because) of the tax demanded annually by Astyages.

***   *****   ***

than the guards at the station-posts along the road had been when the same servant had explained its purpose to them. It was common practice, not only among the Medes, but throughout all Asia, for servants to present their masters with just such a gift whenever they needed to ask permission for something; or when they planned to submit a lawsuit and hoped to persuade their lord to give their case a fair hearing. Such small gifts were not bribes however; but merely tokens of respect.

In any case, Cyrus had received gifts from Harpagus each and every year on his birthday and on the anniversary of what he thought of as a kind of ‘rebirth’; the day he’d finally discovered his true identity. Cyrus had heard the whole story of what had happened to Harpagus’ son, and had come to think of these gifts as tokens of Harpagus’ atonement. It seemed to Cyrus that instead of blaming Cyrus for his son’s grisly demise, as a lesser man might, Harpagus had seen events for what they were; and had recognized that the real cause of all his misfortunes was ultimately his own fault, in agreeing to do Astyages’ bidding in the first place; albeit through a third party. Now it seemed to Cyrus that he was trying very hard to do everything he could to atone for his grievous error.

Yet, as it happened, that third party had turned out to be Mitradates, who had then saved his life, so Cyrus knew that he also had much to thank Harpagus for; had it not been for Harpagus’ reluctance to deal with the infanticide himself, Cyrus would surely never have survived even his first night in this world. So this gift from Harpagus came as no surprise to him. But Cyrus was quite surprised however, when, as this servant of Harpagus presented him with the huge animal, he suddenly leaned forwards and whispered to him that he must paunch the beast himself rather than having the kitchen staff perform this messy chore; and that he was to make sure that he was quite alone when he did so.

Intrigued by the man’s secrecy, and most curious about its reason, Cyrus merely nodded silently and gave the servant a small purse of coins for his trouble, then he immediately took the hare to his private quarters where he cut it open to find the note which Harpagus had written to him. He read:

“Son of Cambyses, the gods assuredly watch over you, or never would you have passed through your many wonderful adventures. Now is the time when you may avenge yourself upon Astyages, your would-be murderer. Remember he ordered your death; you owe it to the gods and to me that you are still alive. I think you are not ignorant of what he did to you; nor of what I suffered at his hands because I gave you to the cowherd, and did not put you to death.

Listen to me now, and obey my words, and all the empire of Astyages shall be yours. Raise the standard of revolt in Persia, and then march straight on Media. Whether Astyages appoints me to command his forces against you, or whether he appoints any of the other princes of the Medes, all will go as you could wish. They will be the first to fall away from him and, joining your side, they will exert themselves to overturn his power. Be sure that on our part all is ready; so do your part, and do it speedily.”

Cyrus sipped thoughtfully at a goblet of wine as he deeply pondered the contents of the note. After a few minutes he took a small sheet of papyrus, a goose-quill pen and a small bottle of ink from a large chest at the foot of his bed; and began to write. When he had finished, he clapped his hands together loudly and a servant immediately appeared from the shadows with a polite bow.

“Call an Assembly of the Tribes! I want to speak to them immediately!” Cyrus ordered him urgently.

Without a word the servant bowed deeply and then quickly turned and left to obey his master’s command. It would take some time for the tribes to assemble; but if he sent riders to each of their territories immediately he could have them all here by the following morning.

***   *****   ***

CYRUS By Theseustoo/Astyages (Continued) CHAPTER 5:

The Plot.

One by one; and silently; using the cover of the darkness provided by a new moon and the middle of the night; princes from five of the six tribes which comprised the Median nation slipped like shadows through the silent streets of Agbatana to the house of Harpagus, just outside the city walls. Each man among them was extremely careful to make sure they were neither seen nor followed by any of the king’s guards, who patrolled the streets and the city’s perimeter every night to ensure that crimes were kept to a minimum. They knew that if they were spotted they would certainly arouse the guards’ suspicions; anyone out and about at this late hour was breaking the curfew and could only be up to no good. If they should be caught, they knew that even their exalted status as princes among their own tribes would not save them. To be caught by the king’s guards would mean interrogation by Astyages’ expert torturers; and as soon as their sinister purpose was discovered, as it inevitably would be, they knew that they would most certainly be sentenced to a most cruel and painful death.

One by one the silent shadows slipped through the open back door of Harpagus’ house; usually this door was used only by servants or tradesmen. Harpagus had left it unbarred to avoid even the remote possibility that a knock on the door might be overheard by any of his servants. One by one the five Princes of the Busae, the Paretacenae, the Struchates, the Arizanti, and the Budii arrived. They were all appalled at the rapidly-increasing harshness of Astyages’ rule; for what had been done to Harpagus, almost ten years ago now, was far from the only atrocity the tyrant had committed on his subjects; merely one of the worst. Of the six tribes which comprised the nation of Media, only one tribe was not represented in this small and very select group; the Magi. As the king’s advisors and administrators they of all people must be kept ignorant of the plot. In warm but hushed tones, and with the shutters closed to hide the light of the single oil-lamp they used to find their way into the kitchen, Harpagus welcomed them, one by one, as they arrived. Their need for caution was still just as urgent, even inside Harpagus’ own household, because the spies of Astyages were everywhere; and although the servants had all retired for the night hours ago, they must be careful not to awaken them in case their clandestine conference should be discovered. If one of them should be a spy and inform the king, their coup would be finished even before it started. Once inside the kitchen, however, they could speak a little more freely as this part of the house was at the opposite end of the building from the servants’ sleeping quarters, although they still used only the one dim lamp and closed the shutters on the windows. When the last of the five princes had finally arrived, Harpagus addressed them in a voice which revealed the intensity of his passion, in spite of its quietness. “You all know why I have called this meeting: Our king, Astyages, has become a tyrant; his actions are so capricious and so abominable that they can no longer be tolerated.” Tabalus, the Prince of the Busae was the first to answer: “That is true, Harpagus; and we all know well enough what he’s done to you.

Indeed there is not a man here who has not suffered grievously at his hands.” Here the prince sighed heavily, “But we cannot hope to overthrow him by ourselves; any attempt at revolt would be seen even by our own people as treachery; motivated by our own ambitions… They would never support it!” Artaphernes, the Prince of the Paretacenae concurred: “The Prince of the Busae is right; our own people would never support such an act…” Hystaspes, the Prince of the Arizanti interrupted him, “Unless we can persuade them that we intend to put a legitimate successor on his throne…” Ah, now we’re getting somewhere, thought Artabazos, the Prince of the Struchates, quickly catching Hystaspes’ drift he realized that the people may easily be persuaded to support such a plan as this.

They all knew that apart from his only daughter Mandane, Astyages had only one other legitimate successor; his grandson in Persia, Cyrus. And, he thought, Cyrus was very popular among both the Persians and the Medes. However, he knew that the support of the people on its own was not quite enough. Pensively he added, “And even then we’ll need help from outside of Media; the king’s army alone is large enough to counter our opposition unless we find outside help!” But Harpagus had already anticipated these problems; in answer to Artabazos’ objections he smoothly interjected, “True; and that is precisely why I think we must enlist the aid of Cyrus of Persia, the son of Cambyses and Astyages’ daughter, Mandane… If we can persuade the Persians to revolt with Cyrus at their head, the tribes may be persuaded to follow our lead…” The tribal princes considered this for a few moments; it seemed like a sound enough proposition… Cyrus, after all, was Astyages’ own grandson and thus perfect for their plans; a legitimate and, equally importantly, a male heir… Almost certainly the armies of all the tribes would support this cause rather than risk any of Media’s individual tribes becoming too powerful and dominating the rest of them; especially as the alternatively involved the even more distasteful prospect of Media being ruled by a woman should Mandane ascend the throne after her father’s demise. A woman on the throne might be wooed and won; and along with her the throne, but the fates alone knew who might thus become their king… This was also, the princes all agreed, one more excellent reason for not merely accepting the status quo, for the king had no sons; and unless something happened to change the situation, they knew that Mandane would indeed inherit her father’s kingdom. It was unthinkable that a nation of warriors such as the Medes, should ever be ruled by a mere woman; a member of the weaker sex; such a blasphemy could only weaken the kingdom. Mazares, Prince of the Budii asked, “But will he support our cause? After all, Astyages is his own blood…” But Harpagus had been thinking about this for a long, long time. More than ten years had passed since Astyages had invited him to that macabre supper; and the thought of one day having his revenge had not left his mind for an instant during all that time. In response to Mazares’ question he said, “That is precisely why I have been cultivating Cyrus’ friendship by sending him gifts every year… on his birthday and also on the anniversary of the discovery of his true identity… Both dates will remind him that Astyages tried to have him killed. I am now confident that he sees me as a friend and an ally.

And Astyages has committed so many atrocities against so many people that he has long ago forgotten the evil he did to me and my family! The fool has just appointed me general of his army! Whether he chooses me or one of you as Commander in Chief, victory will fall to us like a ripe plum!” “Very well, Harpagus;” the Prince of the Struchates said softly, “But how can we get word of our plans to Cyrus? The king’s guards are at every staging post along the road; and their suspicions would surely be aroused if one of us were to try to contact him!” “Aye!” Echoed the Prince of the Arizanti, “We must keep it to ourselves; it must remain absolutely secret until the trap is ready to spring… we dare not risk being discovered…” “You need not concern yourself on that account,” the cunning Harpagus reassured them instantly, “I have planned for that also…” *** ***** ***

CYRUS

By

Theseustoo

As the guest of honour at the king’s banquet, Harpagus seated himself in the traditional position of honour at the king’s right hand, as many acrobats, jugglers, musicians and dancers competed with each other to entertain the king and his guests. The king’s own cup-bearer stood behind them and beside his normal duties kept Harpagus’ wine-cup filled as he enjoyed the spectacle which unfolded before his eyes, which were bedazzled by the brightness and colours of the gaudy costumes of the entertainers who had been hired to provide the evening’s entertainment. And all the while, many and various delicious aromas arose from the palace kitchens to tantalize the king’s guests; making their mouths water in anticipation as they watched the entertainment and chatted quietly amongst themselves.

Presently a line of a dozen servants trouped in, carrying large platters on which were laid all kinds of meats and other delicacies, which they placed on the tables in front of the guests, who then helped themselves to the feast that had been laid before them. Harpagus’ curiosity was piqued when he noticed a curious anomaly in the evening’s proceedings however; usually, the king’s table was served first; but for this evening’s feast the king’s table was left unserved until after everyone else had been served.

He could not help but wonder what this novelty meant; perhaps, he thought, it was some peculiar new protocol the king’s master of ceremonies had dreamed up to honour the king and his guest on this very special occasion. Serving the least important guests first and leaving the king and his guest of honour to be served last, emphasized, he could only suppose, the role of the king and his guest as the provider of and the reason for the feast.

Harpagus ignored the anomaly, however, as having no consequence. Indeed, he probably wouldn’t have noticed it at all; but he had not eaten anything since midday and his stomach was beginning to growl. He looked at the king, but the king acted as if nothing at all was out of the ordinary; so Harpagus could only pin his faith that he would soon be fed on his status as the king’s guest of honour. Finally, when all the other tables had been served, the kitchen servants laid several large silver platters in front of Astyages.

“Harpagus!” the king said, helping himself to several slices of meat from one of the platters in front of him as he smiled broadly at the minister, “I’m so glad you could join us this evening; I have a very special treat for you; I do hope you are hungry?”

“That I am sire!” Harpagus answered enthusiastically as the king clapped his hands together. Immediately servants brought in more silver platters, from which arose the most delectable and tantalising aromas yet, and placed them on the table in front of Harpagus.

“Excellent!” the king replied jovially, “These dishes have been specially prepared for you alone; please eat your fill… Whatever you cannot eat tonight you may take home with you…”

“Your majesty is most generous…” Harpagus said as he helped himself to the delicacies on the platters which had been laid in front of him.

“Not at all…” the king said graciously, “it’s the least I could do!”

Harpagus set to with a will, politeness dictating that he demonstrate his gratitude for the king’s generosity by his evident enjoyment. Though he could not possibly manage to finish all of the dishes that were set in front of him, at least, he thought to himself, he would manage to sample them all; thus the king would not feel slighted by any omission. After all, thought Harpagus, Astyages had quite evidently gone to considerable trouble to have all these recipes prepared for him alone; sampling them all was the least he could do.

Finally he could eat no more; he pushed the platter away from him, wiped his mouth on his sleeve and burped loudly in evident satisfaction to demonstrate his pleasure.

Hearing this, Astyages turned to him and enquired jovially, “Harpagus, did you enjoy your meal?”

“Indeed sire!” Harpagus exclaimed enthusiastically, “Such delicious spices; and such tender meat! I really can’t say which dish I enjoyed the most!”

Once again Astyages clapped his hands together and a slave brought in a large covered basket, which he placed on the table in front of Harpagus.

“This basket is also for you.” Astyages said, nodding to the servant, who raised the lid to reveal the basket’s contents. Inside were the severed head, hands and feet of Harpagus’ only son. Harpagus was shocked to the core as he instantly realised what this meant. Yet in spite of his shock, somehow he managed to maintain his composure as Astyages coolly asked him, “Do you know what kind of meat it is that you have been enjoying so much?”

“I do Lord…” Harpagus replied with some difficulty, as he struggled to keep down both his fast-rising anger and the contents of his stomach, “Whatever your majesty does is agreeable to me…”

Since ancient times the law said that the king can do no wrong. As the king’s servant, Harpagus knew better than to allow himself to lose control of his feelings; to do so would be to invite a spear through the heart from one of the guards who adorned the Great Hall at regular intervals. He must act as if this were a feast like any other. He collected together whatever scraps of meat still remained on the table and put them into the basket, which he then took up and, with a silent but deeply respectful farewell bow to the king, he left the feasting and the revelries to return home to bury what little now remained of his son, wondering desperately how he was going to explain this latest turn of events to his wife.

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Early the next morning Astyages summoned his advisors to his throne-room to hear their opinion on this unexpected reversal of his plans. After explaining how he had discovered that his grandson was still alive, he asked the Magi if they thought he was still in any danger from the youth. The three Magi conferred among themselves for several minutes, until eventually Astyages impatiently interrupted their discussions, “Well, what do you make of it?” he demanded.

The Magister stepped forward and with a rather nervous smile, which he hoped looked reassuring rather than sickly, he hesitantly replied, “Majesty, if the boy survives, and has already ruled as a king without any craft or contrivance then you may cheer up… You need feel no more alarm on his account. He will not reign a second time. We have found that even oracles are sometimes fulfilled in an unimportant way; and dreams, even more often, may have wondrously mean accomplishments.”

“That is what I too, am most inclined to think…” Astyages said slowly, “The boy, having already been king, the dream is out, and I have nothing more to fear from him. But take good heed and give me the best counsel you can for the safety of my house… and also for your own interests.”

“Truly,” the Magister began reassuringly, “it is very much in our interests that your kingdom should be most firmly established for if it went to this boy it would pass into foreign hands, since he is a Persian. Then we Medes would lose our freedom and be quite despised by the Persians. But as our fellow-countryman, so long as you are on the throne all manner of honours are ours; we even have some share in the government. So we have every reason to forecast well for you and your sovereignty. If we saw any present cause for fear, you may be sure we would tell you. But truly we are persuaded that the dream has been accomplished in this harmless way; we recommend you to banish your fears. As for the boy, our advice is that you send him to Persia, to be with his father and mother.”

“Very well…” Astyages said. Then, turning to his guards at the door, he said, “Guards! Bring in the boy.”

The guards brought in ‘Ambares’, who had been waiting in the ante-chamber until the king decided what to do with him. In an unusually gentle voice, Astyages now addressed the still-astonished young boy, “My child, I was led to do you wrong by a dream which has come to nothing: from that wrong you were saved by your own good fortune. Go now to Persia; I will provide your escort. When you get to your journey’s end, you will find your real father and mother.”

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(To be continued)

Harpagus

CYRUS  Chapter 3,  part3

By

Theseustoo

As Harpagus entered the throne room, escorted by two guards, he saw Mitradates and Ambares standing in front of the throne; although he recognized the cowherd immediately he did not know who the youth was at all. Mitradates was hanging his head, but he looked up at the king’s minister sheepishly as Harpagus quickly approached the throne. As the conversation progressed between the monarch and his minister, the confusion which had expressed itself on the youth’s face gradually turned into an expression of wonder as enlightenment gradually adorned his handsome visage.

As soon as he saw the herdsman, Mitradates, Harpagus gave him a suspicious glance and fear began to rise in his breast. He wondered what this cowherd could possibly be doing here with a boy of that age, noticing the remarkable resemblance the young lad bore to Astyages. He dared not even think about what he now began to suspect, though the suspicion grew into a certainty as he approached the throne. Astyages was expressionless however, as he now asked his servant in a quiet voice, “Harpagus, how did you kill the child of my daughter whom I gave into your hands?”

Harpagus instantly knew now with dreadful certainty who this youth must be; he could only be the child of Cambyses and Mandane, whom he had long ago given into the hands of this cowherd to dispose of. Harpagus, as the king’s own personal minister, knew Astyages well enough to know that he would recognize a lie instantly and decided that his only hope lay in telling the whole truth… very carefully.

“Sire,” he began hesitantly, “when you gave me the child I instantly wondered how I could fulfil your wishes, and yet, without being unfaithful to you, avoid blood-guilt for shedding blood which in truth was your daughter’s and your own. So I sent for this cowherd and gave the child to him, telling him that by the king’s orders it was to be put to death. And this was no lie, for so you had commanded! I ordered him to expose the baby in the wilds of the mountains, and to stay near and watch till it was dead; I threatened him with all manner of punishment if he failed. Afterwards, when he had done all that I had commanded, I sent the most trustworthy of my eunuchs to view the body; and then I had the child buried. This, sire, is the simple truth, and this is the death by which the child died.”

Astyages showed not the slightest sign of displeasure, let alone anger as he said simply, “The child you buried was the stillborn son of this man’s wife; this lad here is my grandson!”

For a brief moment Astyages watched the fear rising in Harpagus’ eyes as it simultaneously drained the blood from his face. Harpagus watched the king’s face closely, trying to determine what he was thinking as the monarch continued speaking, still in a calm and steady voice which betrayed no emotion; apparently undisturbed by this startling revelation.

“So! The boy is alive;” the king was saying to him softly as Harpagus recovered his wits, “and it is best as it is. For the child’s fate was a great sorrow to me, and the reproaches of my daughter went to my heart. Truly fortune has done us a good turn in this. Go home now, and send me your son to be with the new-comer. Tonight I shall sacrifice thank-offerings for the child’s safety to the gods to whom such honour is due; I hope you will be my guest of honour at the banquet.”

Managing, with some difficulty, to hide both his relief and his surprise at the king’s mood, and this apparent change of heart towards his grandson which it now indicated; yet not quite trusting his voice to remain steady because his throat was dry from fear; Harpagus silently nodded his acceptance of Astyages’ generous, if rather astonishing invitation. Then he bowed more deeply than ever towards the king, and left the great hall.

***   *****   ***

The two guards who were on sentry duty at the city gates leaned heavily on their spears, looking forward to sunset, when the evening shift would be coming to relieve them; in a little over an hour’s time, they estimated, from the lowering position of the reddening sun as it fell towards the horizon in the western sky. Suddenly a young lad of about nine or ten years old strode up to them, as proud as a young peacock, and announced, “Guards, I am the son of Harpagus; the king has sent for me.”

The guards exchanged a knowing glance with each other and one of them, putting his arm around the lad’s shoulders, with exaggerated friendliness, said, “Oh yes… We were told to expect you; you are to come with us…”

Too young and inexperienced to notice anything the least bit unusual in their behaviour, the boy walked freely between them as the two guards escorted him unsuspectingly deep into the city’s interior. The pride the youth felt at having been summoned personally into the royal presence and which was clearly reflected in his cocky attitude, remained undiminished as, instead of taking him to the throne-room of Astyages, or otherwise to the apartment of the king’s newly-rediscovered grandson; whose companion the boy had been informed he was appointed to be; the guards escorted him directly to the kitchens.

The unfortunate youth was still looking forward to meeting his new companion when a sudden unexpected blow to the back of his head mercifully rendered him unconscious.

***   *****   ***

(To be continued)

by Theseustoo

Mitridates

Mitradates was surprised, and not a little frightened, when he received a second summons from the palace. This time, however, it was his ‘son’ Ambares, who was the principal object of the royal summons; he himself was to accompany Ambares only in his capacity as Ambares’ ‘father’ and as such, according to Median law, he knew he might well be held responsible for his son’s behaviour. He also knew that under similar circumstances, almost any other Median father would have already given their offspring a sound thrashing with a birch rod or a leather strap, even before obeying the summons, as a practical demonstration to the king that they were not neglecting their duty to apply parental discipline; and that they were indeed doing their best to bring up their child to be a good and productive citizen.

But except for this one incident Ambares had always been so well-behaved; he was always so respectful and obedient to his elders, especially to his parents; and Mitradates and Spaco both loved him so dearly that they found they could not bring themselves to punish the child before they had heard all the details of his offence, as well as both sides of the story; for Ambares had said nothing to them.

So far, though he loved his parents dearly, he had stoutly refused to tell them the whole story, in case he made trouble for his playmates; especially for those who had helped him punish the rebellious Tembes. Even so they decided not to whip him before his appearance at court; they would wait for the king to decide the outcome of his case and to punish him if he saw fit.

So, uncertain even as to the nature of Ambares’ offence, when Mitradates received the king’s summons to attend the royal court with his son, he was more afraid for Ambares than angry at him; in spite of being also more than a little afraid for his own well-being; for their king Astyages had long been notorious for the highly imaginative cruelty with which he punished those who ever dared offend against any of his extremely harsh, and often arbitrarily-applied laws.

Indeed, Mitradates had also realised very quickly that it was potentially extremely dangerous for him to escort this child especially into the king’s presence. However, he had no choice, for a king’s summons cannot be ignored. In any case he was much more concerned for his young son than he was for himself.

As he contemplated these matters, Mitradates could not help wondering what the king would do to the boy, whom he was supposed to have killed ten years ago, if he were now to be discovered alive. Would Astyages decide to finish the job himself? Would Mitradates and his wife be held responsible? And if so, how would they be punished? He dared think no further than this, but fervently hoped that Astyages would not recognize the boy.

When they arrived at the palace gates, one of the guards escorted them into the throne room and announced them before returning smartly to his post. Overwhelmed by the immensity and great splendour of the palace, Mitradates’ fears mounted even higher as the pair waited silently for King Astyages to notice them and to deign to speak to them.

As the pair approached the throne, the monarch was speaking with the Captain of the King’s Guard, Artembares, who, like Mitradates, was also accompanied by his own son, Tembes; whose puffy red eyes still simmered with obvious resentment at the pain and humiliation he had so recently suffered. Tembes and his father both glowered at them as Mitradates and Ambares stood silently in front of the throne with their heads bowed modestly in the face of such exalted company.

Artembares clutched his son to him protectively as the fearful Tembes cowered from the sight of his adversary. At a nod from the king, Artembares now grasped his son by the shoulders and, turning Tembes’ round so both Astyages and Mitradates could see it, he pulled up his son’s tunic to reveal the wicked red welts that Ambares’ branch had left across the youth’s shoulders. To King Astyages he declared, “Thus oh king, has your slave, the son of a mere cowherd, heaped insult upon my family!”

Astyages descended from his throne to examine the cruel welts on Tembes’ pale-skinned shoulders, and then, turning round to Ambares he demanded, “Is this true?” his voice was incredulous, ”You, the son of so mean a fellow as a cowherd, dared to behave so rudely to the son of one of the highest ranked nobles in my court?”

Perhaps because he was still young and inexperienced, Ambares was nowhere near as frightened as his father. In any case he had already decided that, whatever the king might decide to do with him, he would put a brave face on it. So, with great determination, he looked his king in the eyes, and without flinching answered in a firm, strong voice, “My lord, I only treated him as he deserved.”

The king gave the youth a quizzical look which demanded further explanation; Ambares complied, “I was chosen king in play by the boys of our village,” he began, “because they thought me the best for it. He himself was one of the boys who chose me. All the others did according to my orders but he refused and made light of them, until at last he got his due reward. If for this I deserve to suffer punishment, then here I am, ready to submit to it.”

Astyages now stepped towards the youthful Ambares. He then examined the boy’s face very closely but could find no resemblance at all to Mitradates in it; and yet this face was familiar to him. Indeed he quickly realized that this boy’s face bore a striking resemblance to his own; this young lad had the same sharply angular features and the same hawk-like beak of a nose.

An almost instinctive recognition was suddenly triggered in Astyages’ mind by the natural nobility of Ambares’ reply; that and the courage he even now displayed in front of his king confirmed it; this was no son of a cowherd! And although no further proof was actually necessary, his suspicions were now further reinforced by the calm resignation he read in the youth’s features, and also by the nobility of his bearing and his remarkable self-assurance.

Instantly Astyages divined that this was not the son of Mitradates; and somehow, though he knew nothing at all of the connection between Mitradates and the grandchild he’d ordered destroyed, he nonetheless knew intuitively that this was that very grandson whom he had ordered exposed a little over ten years ago. How he had survived Astyages had no way of knowing at present, but he was determined to find out. Turning once more to the captain of his guard, Astyages said earnestly, “Artembares, I promise you, I will settle this business so that neither you nor your son shall have cause to complain. Now you may leave us…”

Artembares nodded his acquiescence and pulled his son’s shirt back down. Then, forcing his son to copy his obeisance to the king by placing his hand on his son’s head as he did so, he bowed deeply towards their king. Then the pair turned and left the room, both of them much mollified now that it appeared as if an appropriately severe punishment would be inflicted on the transgressor.

When the indignant father and his son had left the room, Astyages turned finally to Mitradates and quietly asked him,

“Where did you get this boy?”

“My lord,” Mitradates replied, hesitantly, “the lad is my own child… The mother who bore him still lives with us in my house.”

Astyages had expected the lie; he made a motion to the guards who stood on either side of the doorway as he said to the cowherd, “You are very ill-advised to bring yourself into such great trouble…”

At the king’s signal the guards stepped forward swiftly, and seized Mitradates’ arms roughly from behind; then they started to drag him away. Realising that he had been caught out in his lie, and that he was about to be dragged away to suffer the most dreadful tortures until he admitted the truth, Mitradates decided instantly that it would be better if he were to admit it now; a swift death would be preferable to a slow and agonizing one; desperately he shouted, “Wait! Forgive me Majesty, I’ll tell you the truth!”

***   *****   ***

(To be continued)

By Theseustoo aka astyages

Merodach Baladan

A few weeks later Mandane went into labour; it was not an easy birth. Even from his own personal quarters, Astyages could hear his daughter’s screams of pain as she fought to bring her child into the world. And while he waited for his grandchild to be born, Astyages threw an offering of incense onto a small brazier which stood in front of a statue of the god Merodach, which formed the central feature of a small shrine the king kept for private worship in his chamber. As the dark, sweetly scented smoke rose heavenward from the burning frankincense, the king lifted his eyes towards heaven and prayed fervently:

“Ea! Enlil! Merodach, and all you gods in Heaven! Hear my prayer; I do not wish to kill my daughter’s child; therefore let it be a girl and no threat to me. Thus may I hope to keep both my kingdom and my daughter’s love.”

He kept mentally repeating his prayer over and over again to himself as he listened intently to his daughter’s screams echoing throughout the palace. Finally the monarch heard the unmistakeable sound of a baby’s first cries as it greeted the new world in which it now found itself. Astyages poured himself a large goblet of wine and drank deeply. After a few minutes, Harpagus entered the chamber, carrying with him Mandane’s newborn baby, wrapped in swaddling clothes.

Astyages looked heavenward again, but this time there was not devotion, but rather a look of recrimination on his face. Though he knew the answer even before he asked, the question came unbidden to his lips anyway.

“Well Harpagus? What news?” he asked, terrified of the answer he already knew, as, with great sadness in his voice, Harpagus replied, “It is a boy my Lord…”

Astyages let out a deep sigh and said, “Harpagus, you must now do exactly as I say…” The servant nodded as his king continued, “I beseech you do not betray the interests of your lord for anyone else’s sake, lest you bring destruction on your own head. Take Mandane’s child; carry him with you to your home and slay him there. Then bury him as you will.”

Though horrified to hear it, Harpagus had been more than half-expecting this command and had prepared himself for it. He replied in a voice which, he fervently hoped, displayed more firmness of purpose than he actually felt, “Oh! My king; never in the past have I disobeyed you in anything, and you may be sure that I never will; if it is your will that this thing be done, rest assured that I will serve you with all diligence.”

Relieved only slightly by his servant’s apparent readiness to obey him, even in such a horrifying matter as this, the desolate Astyages now addressed the newly-born infant in Harpagus’ arms and, while silent tears began to roll down his craggy face, he said gently, “Forgive me my grandson; but I cannot allow you to bring upon me the ruin of which the gods have warned me in my dreams…”

Astyages

With a curt nod Astyages dismissed his servant. Harpagus bowed silently, turned and left, gently carrying the helpless infant with him as he went; hoping desperately that nothing in either the expression on his face nor his bodily demeanour revealed anything of the turmoil which now churned inside him at having to perform such a task as this. But hiding his feelings was something Harpagus was very good at; for, as the king’s minister he had frequently been obliged to hide his own distaste and personal displeasure at some of the things his king had made him do.

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Harpagus’ wife greeted him sleepily at the door when he returned home, even though it was in the early hours of the morning. Dutifully she had waited up for her husband’s later than usual return.

“Welcome home, husband!” She greeted him cheerfully; then, catching sight of the bundle he carried in his arms, she inquired, “Well then, what is this bundle you have brought with you?”

Harpagus said nothing but carried the bundle indoors and laid it on a table; as he did so his wife noticed the doleful expression on his face; alarmed, she exclaimed, “But you look so sad! Husband, won’t you tell me what’s wrong?”

In tones of infinite sadness, Harpagus replied in a whisper,

“My wife, you must tell no-one of this; this is the grandchild of our King, Astyages… I have been ordered by him to kill this child and bury him as I see fit; I cannot disobey my king.”

The look of absolute shock on her face revealed the horror Harpagus’ wife felt at this revelation as she asked him, “But what will you do?”

Harpagus sighed deeply; all the way home he had been asking himself exactly the same question; he had still found no answer. Yet with growing determination he replied, “Not what Astyages wants me to! No! Even if he were much madder and more frantic than he is now, I will not be the man to do his will, nor lend a hand to such a murder as this!”

He paused for a while; then, searching for a reason to justify his rebellion – to himself more than anyone else – he continued, “Many things forbid me from slaying him. For a start, this child is my own kith and kin;” this was quite true; though the relationship was not exactly a close one, thought his wife, as Harpagus went on, “and Astyages is old, and has no son… If, when he dies, the crown should go to his daughter, whose child he now wishes to slay by my hand, what remains for me but the most fearful danger? For my own safety’s sake, indeed the child must die; but someone belonging to Astyages must take his life, not I or mine.”

As Harpagus was explaining his woeful predicament, his wife brought him a plate with some flat bread and cold meat and a few figs for his supper, with a large goblet of wine to wash it down. As he ate, the couple turned their minds to the problem in hand; it seemed such a pity that such an innocent creature as this babe should have to die. Yet there was no way out of this terrible situation; if the child did not die, they knew that Harpagus would probably be killed in his stead; what else could Astyages’ pointed warning to Harpagus not to risk bringing destruction down on his own head, possibly have meant?

After giving the matter a great deal of thought, Harpagus’ wife eventually spoke, “There is a herdsman I know of who belongs to Astyages’ household, who lives in the mountains. Perhaps you should send for him to take the child and have him expose it on the mountainside where many wild beasts roam?”

“An excellent suggestion, wife…” Harpagus replied with a heavy sigh; sad though it was, at least he would not have the child’s blood-guilt on his hands, “Have one of the servants fetch him to me at once.”

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(to be continued…)