Category Archives: Astyages

Hell Hospital 12

19 Saturday Mar 2011

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Hospitals are hell - Aren't they?

 

HELL HOSPITAL

Episode 12

By theseustoo

When John and Mary Swan had finally decided to phone the hospital to find out about their parents’ protracted absence they had been told, in order to ‘spare their feelings’ that their father had suffered a fatal accident at work and that the shock had been too much for their mother, who was being kept in the psychiatric ward for the time being and the baby was being looked after in the hospital nursery. A social worker was sent to help arrange social security benefits for the children and with this done they were promptly forgotten.

But the bills had begun to arrive and it quickly became clear that social security benefits were not going to be enough to pay them all. John knew that he and Mary would have to find work in order to support the rest of the Cricket Team. The duty of ‘babysitting’ their other siblings devolved on the third and fourth eldest, Algernon and Vivienne, who, as their elder siblings had done before them, immediately rose to the challenge and put away the toys they had been playing with to don a more ‘adult’ persona as they intuitively assumed the mantle of authority whilst John and Mary, children competing for work in an adult world, went out day after day to look for work; their lack of early success was disheartening, but like the troopers they were, they always maintained a brave and cheerful face in front of the other members of the Cricket Team. Eventually they found work stacking supermarket shelves in the evenings at Coals; the pay wasn’t great, but it would pay the rent and bills and leave them just about enough to feed the Cricket team, so, for the time-being, they were satisfied.

***** ******** *****

As for their poor deceased pater, Swannee, as the bible says is true of all the dead, was aware of nothing at all. His recently animated corpse was still a corpse; capable of movement and obedience to simple commands, perhaps, but a corpse nonetheless. Without a mind to give it volition or purpose of its own, it was still very much a dead thing; a zombie. Neither was the zombie’s mistress, Elaine, any more aware of what she was doing than was her zombie creation; her own mind having been supplanted by the will of the Dark One and forced to retreat into subconsciousness; all her actions were now directed by the Dark One, to fulfil purposes only he could understand.

***** ******** *****

Dave returned to the hospital and demanded to see the doctor who had handled his injured and now de-calcified foot so roughly that he had re-fractured the fourth meta-tarsal. The doctor had not been impressed with Dave’s display of temper when he loudly accused the doctor of having broken his foot again. But when Dave had threatened to ‘see how you like having your bones broken!’ whilst advancing menacingly towards him, the doctor instantly shouted for security. The two burly security men who instantly responded, upon seeing Dave yelling at the doctor, immediately assessed the situation, sidled round behind him and, each taking hold of one of his arms, held him securely, in spite of his loud demands that he be ‘unhanded forthwith!’

“He’s raving,” the doctor said, “I believe he’s having some kind of nervous or mental breakdown; I’m going to give him a sedative…” With that he filled a syringe from a small bottle and quickly swabbing the skin of Dave’s upper arm, which the security guard who was still firmly holding it had thoughtfully uncovered, injected the syringe’s contents into Dave’s arm as the latter swooned into unconsciousness.

***** ******** *****

Virgil’s Aeneid, Part 4

27 Sunday Feb 2011

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Rendered into prose by

D L Rowlands

*****     *********     *****

Meanwhile Aeneas lay awake in the dark of the night, unable to sleep for his burden of care. But when the sun rose, he too arose to survey the coast and the country near their landing site, anxious to learn more about the nature of the land in which they now found themselves. The region seemed wild and uncultivated, but they did not know whether the land was inhabited by men or solely by beasts.

He hid his fleet underneath a rocky overhang, above which grew tall trees which covered the mountainside and provided a safe retreat. Arming himself with two pointed darts and with the faithful Achates at his side, he left his friends, and when they had reached the deep recesses of the woods, all of a sudden, his goddess mother stood before him, a huntress by habit and manner; her dress suggested a maiden but her air confessed a queen. Her skirt was bound up and her knees were bare; her hair was loose and windblown; her hand held a bow and a quiver hung at her back. She seemed like a virgin of the Spartan blood: With such an array as this Harpalyce bestrode her Thracian courser and outstripped the rapid flood.

“Ho, strangers!” she addressed them, “Have you seen one of my sisters, dressed like myself? I think she wandered into the forest; she had a quiver, painted with spots at her back and she wore a lynx’s hide, and in full cry pursued a long-tusked boar.”

Thus spoke Venus, and her son replied, “We have seen none of your sisters, o virgin; or whatever other title you may call yourself above that… Oh, you are fairer than any mortal woman; your voice and manner betray the celestial nature of your birth! At the very least you seem like one of the chaste goddess, Diana’s retinue… Hear my plea then and do not let a humble suppliant beg your help in vain; but tell me, a stranger long tossed on the tempestuous sea, what earth we tread and who commands this coast? And then wretched mortals shall call on your name and offer sacrificial victims at your altar.”

“I dare not assume the name of goddess,” she replied, “or claim celestial honors; Tyrian virgins carry bows and quivers and wear purple buskins on their feet… Know, gentle youth, that you are in the land of Libya; a people rude in peace and rough in war. The rising city, which can be seen from afar, is Carthage; a Tyrian colony. Phoenician Dido rules this growing state, who fled from Tyre to escape her brother’s hatred. Great were her wrongs and her story is full of fate, which I shall sum up in brief: Sichaeus, a man known for his wealth, and brother to the Tyrian king, was engaged to her but both brothers were struck with an equal dart.

Her father gave her to Pygmalion while she was still a spotless maid. Then Pygmalion, who condemned both divine and human laws, attempted to seize the Tyrian scepter; then strife ensued, caused by accursed gold… The king, blinded by his greed for his brothers’ wealth, by stealth slew him before the sacred altar, but for a long time concealed from her this cruel deed. Every day he framed some new pretense about his brother’s whereabouts to soothe his sister, and delude her mind.

At length, in the dead of night, the ghost of her unhappy lord appeared; the specter stared at her as he bared his bloody bosom and told her of his cruel fate at the altar. Then he warned the widow to take her household gods and flee to seek refuge in faraway places. Finally to support her on such a long voyage, he showed her where he had hidden his treasure. Thus admonished and seized with a mortal fear, the queen gathered companions from among all those who had cause to hate or fear the tyrant, to join her in her flight.

They found a fleet, ready rigged, which they seized, taking Pygmalion’s treasure with them. The vessels, thus heavily laden, put to sea, with fair winds and a woman to lead the way. I don’t know if the weather or Heaven’s fate drove them, but at last they landed, where from afar your eyes may view the turrets of new Carthage rise. They bought a space of ground, named Byrsa, after the bulls hide, which they first enclosed and walled… But where are you from? Where were you born, and what do you seek on our Libyan soil?”

 To her, with sorrow streaming from his eyes, and sighing deeply, her son replied, “Had you the patience to hear, or I to tell, oh nymph, the tedious tale of our fate, I’d take you through such a train of woes that the day would be over before the tale was done! We come from Troy – have you heard of her? – from which we were expelled by force and have been driven by tempestuous storms on various seas…

At length we landed on your Libyan coast. My name is Aeneas; a name not unknown to fame while Fortune favored me. With pious care I rescued my household gods, the companions of our woes, from our enemies and set sail for Italy; and I am descended from the King of Heaven. With twenty ships I crossed the Phrygian sea; my mother goddess leading the way. Now only seven ships remain; preserved from the storms here within your harbor. Now I am an exile, unknown and in distress; barred from Europe and thrown out of Asia to wander the Libyan deserts alone.”

His tender parent could no longer bear to hear his tale and interrupted him, seeking to soothe his care, “Whoever you are, you are not unbeloved by Heaven, since your ships have been driven onto our friendly shore. Have courage, and leave the rest to the gods. Go to the queen and ask her for her help. Your scattered fleet is now safely gathered upon the shore; the winds have changed and your friends are free from danger, or I’ll renounce my skill in augury!

Do you see those twelve swans, flying in beautiful order? Not long ago they were chased by an eagle, who pursued their scattering throng through the clouds; now reunited and in good order, and with returning joy, they flap their wings and fly in circles as they skim the ground looking for a friendly stream. Thus it is with you and your ships; all you have to do is to follow this path before you… You can already see the town from here.”

Having said this, she turned to leave and, as she walked away, allowed him to see her graceful neck and disheveled hair, which flowed over her shoulders and reached the ground; scenting the air with ambrosia, and, letting down the train of her long gown, by her graceful walk revealed herself as the Queen of Love.

The prince pursued the parting deity, calling after her, “Where are you going? You are unkind and cruel to deceive your son with borrowed shapes and to shun his embrace… never to let me see you except thus in disguise and to speak to him not in your own language but in a foreign tongue!”

Thus he complained against the goddess, but he obeyed her commands and took the path she had indicated and marched, invisibly, for Venus had shrouded their persons with mist so that no-one would stay their passage or force them to tell where they were bound and what was their purpose. This done, the sublime goddess flew off to visit Paphos, her native land; where garlands, ever green and ever fair, are offered with vows and solemn prayers at a hundred altars in her temple wile a thousand bleeding hearts invoke her power.

The Trojans climbed the next hill and, looking down beheld the town. Now much closer, the prince beheld with wonder the stately towers where until recently had been nothing but huts and shepherd’s hovels. He viewed the gates and streets and from everywhere heard the noise of the busy marketplace; the toiling Tyrians calling to each other, exhorting each other to work.

Some extended the wall while others built the citadel; or dug, or pushed unwieldy stones along. Some chose a spot of ground for their dwelling place, which, once designed, they surrounded with ditches. Some ordained laws; and some attended the election of holy senates. Here some drew up designs while there others lay deep foundations for a theater. From mighty quarries, mighty columns were hewn for ornaments depicting scenes which expressed their future hopes.

All worked as busily as bees in the flowery plains, when winter is past and summer scarce begun. Some conduct the youths about the city, while some make wine, which sitll others dispense. Some wait at the gate to receive the harvest and relieve their friends of their golden burden. All, with united force, combined to drive the lazy drones from the laborious hive.

Stung with envy, they viewed each others’ deeds as the fragrant work proceeded diligently. “Thrice happy you, whose walls already rise!” Aeneas said as he viewed, with lifted eyes, their lofty towers; then, entering the gate, still concealed in prodigious clouds, he mixed, unnoticed, among the busy throng, as, borne by the tide, he passed unseen among them.

***** ********* *****

Hell Hospital 11

25 Friday Feb 2011

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HELL HOSPITAL

Episode 11

By theseustoo

(Disclaimer: this series of stories is completely fictional and none of the persons, places or institutions in these stories are real, but figments of my own imagination. Any similarity to any real person, place or institution is entirely coincidental.)

Dave had had a particularly wearying eighteen months since his accident; his foot had been crushed and dislocated simultaneously as he was thrown over the handlebars of his motorcycle after a female driver had driven out of a side-street to make a left turn right in front of him; he’d seen her approaching the junction and, as she had looked right at him, Dave had of course assumed that she was going to stop and give way as the law demanded in such a situation. She hadn’t, however, and the result had been just about every bone in Dave’s left foot being shattered. After eighteen months he’d returned for his check-up, expecting to be told he would soon have bone fusion surgery and that this would lessen some of the pain he still felt in the leg, even though he’d begun to walk on it some time ago.

“I remember you…” the doctor said, frowning heavily under his thick-rimmed glasses

“I remember you too!” Dave said. This doctor had seem him once before and had demonstrated such a judgemental attitude towards Dave and his injury that Dave suspected him of working for the insurance company which was dealing with his claim for compensation. At the very least, thought Dave, this guy has the bedside manner of a house-brick; in fact he was sure he’d known friendlier and more compassionate house-bricks.

The doctor made Dave take off his shoes and socks and, after looking at the X-rays Dave had just had done, took the latter’s left foot in his hands; taking one end of his foot in one hand and the other end in the other hand, the doctor then suddenly twisted both ends of the foot in opposite directions; “Aaargh!” Dave yelled instantly as he felt something go ‘click’ painfully in his left foot. Another wrench of the foot upwards towards the kneecap brought another yell of pain from the patient, who was beginning to wonder what he’d ever done to the doctor to deserve such treatment.

“That’s bad…” the doctor was saying, “Your ankle is still very stiff; and the x-rays show that your bones have all decalcified; your foot now has osteoporosis as a result of protracted disuse; there’s too little calcium in your bones for the bone fusion surgery to work, so you’ll need to walk on it as much as you can for the next six months… Then come back and we’ll see if there’s enough calcium in it for the bone fusion operation… The good news is that if you walk on it enough for the next six months you may not need the bone fusion…”

Dave had patiently ignored the violent urges he felt towards this doctor and even more patiently made another appointment for six months later; it had been six months since his last appointment; one thing Dave was sure of was that he was not suffering from ‘over-servicing’. He made a mental note of his determination that if he had to see the same doctor on his next visit, that he would ask for another doctor; he had been assured that none of the hospital’s doctors ‘worked for the insurance companies’, but who, he asked himself, could one possibly believe in this wonderful 21st century? And this quack seems downright hostile!

His determination was redoubled when a visit to his own GP confirmed a suspected fractured fourth meta-tarsal; and his GP’s method of examining the foot for flexibility was not only much gentler, but, it seemed to Dave, also produced greater flexibility in the whole foot.

***** ******** *****

“Well,” Doctor Frood was saying, “Vat does zis ‘saint’ of yours look like, then…?”

“Well, she’s kinda tall and slim… blonde and speaks with a slightly Scandinavian accent.

“So you actually do see her, then; she’s not just a voice inside your head?”

“Oh yes, Doctor… I see her as plainly as I see you sitting here in front of me!”

“Most unusual…” the psychiatrist said, suddenly standing up and agitatedly starting to pace the room; he stopped in front of the window, staring out of it into space, as he continued, “… few schizophrenia patients actually see visions; the voices remain internal to their heads, but clearly, you understand that this cannot be real? It must be some kind of hallucination! People just don’t appear and disappear like that!”

He turned round only to discover with astonishment that Loreen had somehow disappeared. She couldn’t have left by the normal route; his secretary was trained to try to stop and question anyone who left an interview early and he’d have heard; besides, when he asked her if his patient had left, his secretary had just said, “Patient?” as if she hardly knew what such at thing was. Nervously he reached into his drawer, took out a small pill-bottle and poured himself out a generous handful of ‘little yellow helpers’; then he withdrew a silver flask from a hip pocket and washed his pills down with a good strong slug of brandy…

It wasn’t possible, was it? That he could be imagining patients? Patients who talked about seeing saints? Was this, he began to wonder, some kind of guilt manifestation from his own rejection of religion at an early age? Perhaps, he thought, I need to see a psychiatrist!

***** ******** *****

HELL HOSPITAL 10

12 Saturday Feb 2011

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HELL HOSPITAL

Episode 10

By theseustoo

(Disclaimer: this series of stories is completely fictional and none of the persons, places or institutions in these stories are real, but figments of my own imagination. Any similarity to any real person, place or institution is entirely coincidental.)

After her narrow escape, Loreen decided it would be a good idea to keep a low profile for a while, so when the psychologist she had decided to visit on the advice of her friend, Nurse Julia from the Psych Ward, suggested that Loreen should prepare a bag for herself and then enter the Psych Ward for a few days’ observation, she welcomed it with a sigh of relief. Eating in the ward would keep her away from the staff canteen and thus minimise the chance that her presence might jog someone’s memory about the mystery siren who had lured the unfortunate Swannee to his doom…

“Don’t worry Loreen,” the shrink had said, as he opened his office door for his client as her session drew to a close, “…once we’ve observed you for a few days and run some tests, we’ll probably find there’s nothing wrong with you; we’ll find out what these apparitions you keep seeing really are… and what they really mean!”

“Thank you Dr Frood”, she had replied, as if her sigh of relief were a sigh of reluctance, “… I’m sure you know what you’re doing, of course; it’s all for the best…” The burden of looking after Nurse Paula had been something of a strain lately and she had begun to wonder about the sanity of following the advice of anyone spoken to during a transcendental experience. Yet she could not deny that had she not been there on several occasions, Nurse Paula’s actions would most certainly have been lethal for certain patients. Though she doubted her own sanity now, she still felt compelled to act on those occasions when she had realised the meaning of the clues in the crosswords; and she was never without a copy of ‘Take 5’ magazine in her pocket, buying the latest edition the moment after it arrived in the hospital’s shop. But she couldn’t understand why it had been she who had been chosen for this task; she’d never even been particularly religious.

Her relief at managing to escape the scrutiny of the diners in the staff canteen for even a few days was somewhat tempered, however, when she found herself in a bed right next to Catherine Swan… the now-infamous mad murderess who had killed her husband. The poor woman had completely refused to recognise her baby when it had been presented to her; indeed Catherine’s memory of having been married and had any children at all had completely vanished; she now thought she was in the convent to which she’d been prepared to go after a sadly fatal performance had put an end to her partner’s life and simultaneously brought her career as a knife-thrower to a premature close just before she had allowed herself to be persuaded by the blandishments of the then youthful Swannee.. She spent most of her waking hours in prayers or meditations, but the nature of these prayers and meditations was very unpredictable; sometimes they involved the hospital’s patron saint and seemed relatively benign, whilst at other times she seemed to be communicating fearfully with someone she referred to only as the Dark One; occasionally she would speak, snarl, growl and otherwise communicate as if she actually were the Dark One.

Loreen decided that Catherine was totally ‘out of it’. She showed no sign whatsoever that she recognised the woman who now occupied the next bed, so Loreen decided that her chances of remaining undiscovered were still much better here than at work. Of course, she still had to keep an eye on Paula, but Loreen knew Paula’s schedule by heart and had no difficulty in ‘disappearing’ from the ward whenever her protege had a serious mishap. Yes, she would be much safer here, she thought, with some satisfaction.

***** ******** *****

On a dimension the existence of which today’s scientists can scarcely dream of, the Dark One brooded; an eternity was coming to an end and he sensed that release from his eternal imprisonment was nigh; sensing a weakness, he extruded a metaphysical pseudopod into that group of dimensions which our scientists recognise as ‘Space-Time’ and found sympathetic vibrations; gently, he eased himself into Elaine’s receptive consciousness… Manipulating this one would be easy, he thought.

***** ******** *****

Virgil’s Aeneid, Part 3

04 Friday Feb 2011

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Astyages

Virgil’s Aeneid (Part 3)

The queen herself suspended the rigid laws out of pity for the Trojans’ plight and protects their cause.

When Venus saw almighty Jove turn his gaze from the heavens to the Libyan realms, to ponder on the miseries of the humans there, she addressed him, with a downcast look and tears in her eyes,  

“Oh, King of gods and men, whose awful hand dispenses the thunder, and who disposes all with absolute command, how could my pious son arouse your anger? Or, what was Troy’s offense? Not only have the Trojans lost all hope of reaching Italy, but tossed by tempests on the seas, they now find themselves barred from every coast. You promised once that a divine progeny of Romans would spring from the Trojan line, which in future times would hold the world in awe and bring law to both land and sea, and this promise eased my grief for Troy when she was ruined in that cruel war. How is it that this doom is now reversed? Then I could balance one fate against the other, but now, while Fortune still maintains her present course, what can I hope for? What can still succeed? What is to be the end of all their labors by your decree? Antenor, from amidst the Grecian hosts could pass secure and pierce the Ilyrian coast near the nine channels of the mighty Timavus; where at length he founded the city of Padua, thus giving his Trojans a secure retreat. There they fixed their weapons and restored their name; ruling quietly, though crowned with fame. But we, who are descended from your own sacred line, entitled to your heaven and divine rites are banished from the earth, and for the wrath of one, are removed from Latium and the promised throne. Is this our just reward? And is this how Jove keeps his word?”

Jove smiled indulgently at the most beautiful of the goddesses and kissed her cheek before he replied,

 “Don’t worry! The fates of your followers are fixed! You will see your Lavinian walls; and when he is ripe for heaven and fate calls him, you shall bear Aeneas up, sublime, to me. I have searched the mystic rolls of fate concerning your son and you should know that very soon he will fight a successful war in Italy; he will tame fierce nations, impose successful laws and build cities until, with every foe subdued, three more years shall pass before he dies; this is his prefixed destiny. After him, Ascanius, now called Iulus, will reign for thirty years and then transfer the seat (of government?) from Lavinnium to Alba Longa, which he will build with hard labor. After this his descendants shall rule for another three hundred years. Then we shall see Ilia the fair; a priestess and a queen; give birth to twin boys, who will be exposed and reared by wolves. Then Romulus shall gain his father’s throne; he shall be the founder of martial towers and call his city Rome and its people, Romans. To them I have assigned neither boundaries to their empire, nor any fixed term of years for their immortal line. Even haughty Juno shall at length atone for embroiling the heavens, the earth and the seas in turmoil, and shall join her power to ours, to cherish and advance the Trojan line. The whole world will be subjected to Roman dominion, and shall adore the nation of the gown. The time is coming when Troy shall overturn the Grecian state; when she shall reap sweet revenge on those who engineered her city’s fall and crush them into submission. Then Caesar will arise from the Julian stock, the boundaries of whose empire shall be the skies themselves; our heaven, the just result of human toils, he shall securely reward with divine rites and from his shrine incense shall ascend; then impious war shall cease and the stern age be softened into peace. Then will banished faith return and Vestal fires shall burn once more in hallowed temples. And Remus, with Quirinus shall sustain righteous laws, and restrain force and fraud. Janus himself shall wait before his fane and guard the gate, bolted with iron bars, within which Fury himself is kept imprisoned; bound in brazen chains, raised high on a trophy of futile weapons he sits and threatens the world with vain alarms.” 

And with this he sent Cyllenius with a command to free the ports and open the the Punic land to Trojan guests, lest, ignorant of fate, the queen might force them from her town and state. Cyllenius flew down from the steep slope of Heaven, cleaving the yielding skies with his wings to descend soon upon the Libyan shore, where he revealed his rod of authority to perform his message. The surly murmurs of the people thus were made to cease and they gave their consent as the fates required. The queen herself suspended the rigid laws out of pity for the Trojans’ plight and protects their cause.

*****     *********     *****

Virgil’s Aeneid, Part 2

17 Monday Jan 2011

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A ship struck by waves during a storm over the Black Sea

An example of the kind of storm the seas in this region experience even in modern times: A fierce storm with winds of up to 67mph (108kph)batters the northern shores of the Black Sea, sinking several ships.

by Astyages

And while the pious prince bewailed his fate, fierce Boreas, the cold north wind, drove against his flying sail and rent the sheets. The raging billows rose and lifted the storm-tossed vessel to the skies and when it fell broke all the oars as the ship slewed around and turned her prow, while those astern, as they slid down the steep slope of the deck, through the gaping waves beheld the boiling deep.

Three ships were blown by the south wind who cast them furiously upon those hidden rocks, which the Ausonian sailors call the Altars, when upon occasion they rise above the flood into view and bared their spacious backs. Three more were driven angrily by Eurus, onto the shallows of moving sandbanks which left them stranded in the middle of the ocean.

Orontes’ ship, which bore the Lycian crew, before Aeneas’ very eyes, oh, horrid sight, was washed by waves from stem to stern and finally the pilot was washed overboard, torn from his rudder and hurled headlong into the sea, in which he circled the ship three times before a huge wave sucked him under and he was lost to the deep; while here and there, floating on the waves were arms, pictures, precious goods and floating men, as the stoutest of the Trojan vessels gave way before the storm, her shivered timbers and loosened planks letting in the rushing sea. Iloneus was her captain, and old Alethes was in her crew; while faithful Achates and the bold and youthful Abas endured no less in their own ships, which both let the briny sea in through gaping seams.

Meanwhile, Neptune, hearing the sound of the raging tempest, was displeased and, fearing some usurpation of his watery reign, raised his mighty head above the sea with serene majesty, then rolled his eyes and looked around him. He saw the distress of the dispersed Trojan fleet, oppressed by winter’s stormy winds. He knew all about his sister, Juno’s envy, and what she intended for the Trojans. He summoned Eurus and the West Wind, and cast an angry glance on both of them as he rebuked them:

“Audacious winds! Where did you get the insolence to make such a bold move! Do you now take it upon yourselves to ravage the seas and the land without my supreme command? To raise mountainous waves on the troubled sea? But first let me restrain the billowing seas and then you shall be taught obedience to my reign! You may remind your lord, Aeolus that the realms of the air and the ocean are mine; not his. The trident of the sea and the liquid realm, fell by fatal lot to me. From now on Aeolus’ power is confined to hollow caverns, where he can keep the winds and boast and bluster in his empty hall!”

And as he spoke, he smoothed the troubled sea, dispelled the darkness and restored the daylight, as Cymothoe, Triton and their sea-green train of beautiful nymphs, the daughters of the sea, cleared the Trojan vessels from the rocks with their hands, while the god himself, standing with his trident ready, opened the deep and, spreading the moving sands, then heaved the vessels off the shoals. And wherever Neptune guided his finny coursers, the waves unruffled and the sea subsided, while the Trojan sailors plied their shattered oars and made for the nearest land, which, as Fate would have it, turned out to be the shores of Libya.

Within a long, recessed stretch of coast, they found a bay, hidden from the sea by an island and the two stretches of land on either side which jutted out into the sea, which also protected it from the wind, making it safe for the Trojan ships to ride within the bay even without anchors. Between the two rocky promontories on either side, a cool, green and friendly grotto was formed, whose lichen-covered rocks were the resting place of the Nereids, where they could hide from the heat of the day, while a crystal waterfall provided pure, clean drinking water. Within this harbor, seven ships met; the thin remainders of the scattered Trojan fleet. As soon as they arrived, the sailors, worn out from toil and spent with woes, leaped onto the welcome land to seek repose from their troubles.

First, the good Achates struck flints together repeatedly over the dry tinder and withered leaves he’d collected until first a small flame sprouted among the dry leaves; within a few minutes the fire had caught and as Achates piled on more fuel, the flames rose towards the skies. Wet and dripping, the Trojans dropped to the ground in front of the fire and lay along the ground, or stood around the cheerful blaze. Some dried their corn, which had been thoroughly soaked with brine, and then ground it into a flour to prepare their meal.

Aeneas climbed the brow of the mountain and took in the prospect of the sea below, to see if he could find some sign of the rest of his ships; those captained by Capys, perhaps, or Antheus; perhaps he would see the pennant streamers of Caicus flying somewhere out on the main. But there were no vessels to be seen. However, on the plain below him he saw three well-muscled stags leading a lordly train of does and fauns which grazed contentedly as they moved slowly along. Standing up he took the bow which Achates had given him and let fly his arrows, bringing down first the stags of the herd and then does, until he had felled seven magnificent beasts; one for each of the ships.

He returned to the port triumphant from this little war and broached the large jars of wine which Acestes had generously given him when they left the Trinacrian shore and prepared for a feast, sharing the meat out into equal portions; and as he passed the portions round, the pious leader tried to ease the common grief, “Endure, and conquer! Jove will soon turn our present woes into future good. You have braved the rocks of Scylla with me; and defied the inhuman Cyclops in his den. How much more are you able to bear? Dismiss your cares and keep courage within your breast and Fate will ensure that the hour will come when, with all your sorrows left behind, you relate all these adventures with pleasure for the amusement of your friends. Though we have passed through various hazards and events, we are still on our way to Latium and those realms fore-ordained by Jove, where Trojan kingdoms once again may rise! So, endure your present hardships and survive… live and preserve yourselves for a better fate.”

Thus spoke Aeneas, but he was speaking in order to put heart into his melancholy crew; and not speaking from his own heart; his outward smiles hid his own inward hurt. But for the present the men forgot their own troubles and made haste to prepare the feast. Some skinned the beasts while others cut up the meat; the limbs, still trembling, were put into a huge caldron to boil, while the reeking entrails were roasted on the fire. Stretched out on the grassy turf, they dined at their ease, restoring their strength with meat and cheering their souls with wine.

But once their hunger and thirst were sated, their minds turned once more to the doubtful fortune of their absent friends and hope and fear alternately possessed their minds. They did not even know whether or not their comrades were dead or in some dire distress. Above all, Aeneas mourned the fate of brave Orontes, and the uncertain fate of Gyas, Lycus, and Amycus. Thus the day, but not their sorrows, ended.

***     ******     ****

About An Old Mate – The Pig’s Welcomes T2

16 Sunday Jan 2011

Posted by in Astyages

≈ 27 Comments

Tags

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Russian Monument to Bikers

Whew! Well, that was a close shave… if I hadn’t turned a headlong dive into a combat roll, I’d have gone face first into the tarmac and that, as they say, would have been that. “It would have been ‘Goodnight’ from me; and it would have been ‘Goodnight’ from him!”

Two and a half weeks in hospital, three operations on the foot, nearly $10,000 worth of surgical scrap metal rods, plates and screws holding my foot and ankle bones together, and another couple of weeks of home-recuperation later (and with more operationls to come… “Oh, joy!”) I’m still unable to do much, but I’ve finally recovered enough energy to keep my promise to make a contribution to Poet’s Corner.

To that end, it seems appropriate at the present moment in time to offer you, “Dave, the Mad Biker from Hell”, which I’d like to dedicate to the Bruised and Battered Bikers’ Brigade, and to all the nurses and staff at the RAH, especially the nurses on Ward R3/Orthopaedics.

Dave, the Mad Biker from Hell

1: You may keep your tales of glory
Of wealth and power and fame
And I’ll tell you the story
Of one who wouldn’t play that game:
A hard-riding crazy Irishman
Who, so I’ve heard tell,
Is known by the name,
And it’s earned him some fame –
As ‘Dave, the Mad Biker from Hell’

2: From the cold Streets of London
Young David had come,
To Australia’s sunny shores.
His busker’s life he’d leave behind;
It’s hardships he’d deplored.
A New Start he’d work hard to make,
And he’d succeed for sure…
Until one day fate laid his path
To the Uni’s hallowed door…

3: Now, Dave had but one ambition,
And all he sought was knowledge,
So he studied really hard
At Elizabeth Community College…
Then to Uni off he went,
As proud as proud could be
To study Anthropology
And earn him a degree.

4: He passed with flying colors;
To do honors was invited.
But then they made him student rep
And his career was sorely blighted
When they disestablished the department
Of Anthropology
And he was made to fight his teachers
And the whole Arts Faculty.

5: He knew it was no accident,
The situation had been crafted:
Volunteered, real ‘Army-Style’;
He knew that he’d been shafted…
Now the winding road it calls him,
For he knows that he must find
A different kind of future
To the one he left behind.

6: Now he rides the lonely road
In silence, and solitude serene
While he ponders on the irony
Of all he’d heard and seen.
Even those who had supported him
Could now all kiss his ass
For those he’d represented, (of course),
Had been mostly middle-class.

7: Like his life, Dave’s ancient bike reflects
Cruel hardship and poverty
The clutch worn through, the brakes near gone
The tyres as bald as he;
But he doesn’t care for he knows full well
He’s more chance now than then,
Of survival, as he rides this wreck,
As ‘Dave the mad biker from Hell’.

Virgil’s Aeneid Part 1

30 Thursday Dec 2010

Posted by in Astyages, Virgil's Aeneid

≈ 31 Comments

Edited by

David L Rowlands

Part 1:

Book I 

It was the hatred and jealousy of the goddess Juno which caused the Trojans, fleeing from the destruction of their home-city, so much grief and struggle, through seas made mountainous by Aeolus the god of the wind. Yet even the Queen of Heaven could not forever forestall the fate which Jove had ordained for these storm-tossed wanderers, who would father the Alban race and lay the foundations of the glory that was Rome.

But tell me, oh Muse, what were the causes of such divine wrath? What act, innocent or knowing, was it which provoked the ire of Heaven’s Queen?

It was out of love for Carthage, dearer to Juno than the isle of Samos or even her own city of Argos, whose empire she had personally designed and encouraged to greatness, that her anger arose. For an ancient prophecy had once said that the Trojan race would one day destroy her beloved Carthage and then would lay the yoke of their imperialism upon all the nations of the world. For this reason Juno had aided the Greeks in their ten-year-long campaign against the Trojan state. Furthermore, Juno harbored great resentment against the beautiful young Paris, who had disdained to make love to her, as the goddess had requested, and had instead bestowed this grace upon the beautiful youth, Ganymede.

This prophecy and this insult had caused the Queen of Heaven such distress that she turned her dark and bloodthirsty mind to the business of revenge. For seven long years Juno caused the band of wandering refugees, the remnants of the Trojan host to wander, storm-tossed and scattered through the main, until at last they were driven against the shores of the Latian realm. But scarcely had the Trojan fleet left the Sicilian shores, with cheerful shouts, when Juno, laboring still with endless discontent, gave vent to her fury:

“Then am I vanquished? And must the Trojans reign in Italy? So Fate will have it, and Jove adds his force; I am powerless alone against these two. Angry Pallas, with vengeful spleen, could burn the Grecian navy and drown the men! She, for the fault of one offending foe, presumed to throw the very bolts of Jove himself; and with whirlpools from beneath she tossed the ship and exposed the bosom of the deep. Then, as an eagle grips the trembling hare, she strongly seized the wretch, still hissing with her father’s flame, and with a burning wound transfixed him; and naked, on a rock, she bound him.

“But I who walk in awful state, the majesty of heaven, the sister wife of Jove, for long years employ my fruitless force against the thin remains of ruined Troy! What nations will now pray to Juno’s power? Who now will lay offerings on my slighted altars?”

Feeling thus powerless, the goddess sought the aid of an ally in the form of Aeolus, who keeps the winds bound up within a mountain cave or lets them out to work at his command.

“Oh Aeolus”, she beseeched him, “the King of Heaven has given you the power of the winds and of tempests; you can calm them down and smooth the troubled seas, or you can swell them to a fury… Now there is a race of wandering slaves whom I abhor who are currently making fair headway through the Tuscan sea on their way to Italy, where they plan to design and build new temples for their vanquished gods. Raise all thy winds! Let the skies become black as night! Sink or disperse my fatal enemies! Do this for me, and of the fourteen ocean nymphs who bear my train, the fairest, Deiopeia, shall be yours and make you the father of a happy line.”

To this the god replied, “Your wish is my command, my Queen, for is not my own realm the present of your bounteous hand?”

And with that the god hurled his spear against the mountainside and when he pulled it out again, from the hollow wound the winds danced into the air, and skimming along the ground they settled on the sea, sweeping it into great surges, raising mountains of water and disclosing the deep. The South, East and West winds all blowing at the same time caused such confusion that huge waves rolled in billows to the shore. The cables cracked; and the sailors cried out fearfully as the daytime skies turned to night, and loud peals of thunder and flashes of Jove’s lightning revealed a dreadful picture.

Struck with an unusual fright, the Trojan chief lifted up his hands and eyes and prayed for relief, “Those who died under the walls of Troy are far happier than we! Why couldn’t I have been slain by Tydides, bravest of Greeks, and lie with noble Hector in the plain? Or in the bloody fields of Sarpedon, where Simois rolls the bodies and the shields of heroes, whose dismembered hands still hold their dart aloft or clench the pointed spear!”

(to be continued)

Even Santa Gets the Blues

30 Thursday Dec 2010

Posted by in Astyages, Pig Psalms

≈ 18 Comments

By Astyages

I’ve finally managed to squeeze out a few words in a more-or-less twelve-barre-ish sorta pattern, with a vaguely christmassish sorta feel to ’em for the christmas palms/blues competition, of which we have, I think, approximately three entries… this being the third! So if anyone else would like to contribute an entry to this competition, you still have until Dec 31st, or until such a time as I can find a volunteer non-entrant to be judge Judy and executioner…

In the meantime, here’s my own entry:

“Even Santa Gets the Blues”

It’s christmas eve already and Santa’s got the blues

‘Cause Rudolph’s out on strike for a new set of reindeer shoes.

The elves came out in sympathy; and all his other helpers too;

And the cherry on the top: Mrs Santa has the ‘flu!

Chorus:

Yes it’s christmas in the North Pole; make sure you’ve paid your dues…

Yes it’s christmas in the North Pole, and Santa has the blues

The reindeer all came out on strike; their shoes were all worn through;

But in the yellow pages all Santa found was, “Cobblers to you!”

Mrs Santa’s taken to her bed, so Santa’s had no tea,

And all those kids still want their prezzies delivered all for free!

Chorus:

Yes it’s christmas in the North Pole

Make sure you’ve paid your dues;

‘Cause it’s christmas at the North Pole

And even Santa gets the blues…

I had intended to put music to it but am refraining from doing so due to the limits of time and talent… Happy Dionysia everyone!

Asty

🙂

Cyrus Bumper Grande Finale Edition!

27 Wednesday Oct 2010

Posted by in Astyages, Cyrus the Great: Chronicles

≈ 63 Comments

The Final Battle: The Massagetae

By Theseustoo

The crossing went ahead with no problems and the army had marched as far into the Massagetae territory as the remaining daylight allowed them before they set up camp for the night. Just before dawn Cyrus awoke with a start. Such a dream he’d had! Into the darkness he called out, “Slave! Bring me Hystaspes!” “At once majesty!” a slave’s voice answered sleepily in the darkness. It was this slave’s nightly habit to sleep across the entrance to Cyrus’ bedchamber, for the sake of his security, whether he was at home in his palace in Agbatana, or in his tent on an expedition with his army. The slave quickly rose and lit a waxed taper from a fire which it was also his duty to keep alight in a large brazier which stood in the centre of Cyrus’ tent; above which a large hole in the centre of the tent allowed smoke to escape. With the taper, the slave then lit a small oil-lamp for his master, who had roused and dressed himself, and then ran off quickly to obey him.

While Cyrus waited for his slave to bring him Hystaspes, he washed his hands and face in a bowl of water which he poured from the golden ewer he kept for the purpose on a stand beside his bed. As he dried his face and hands with a small towel from the same night-stand, the slave returned with Hystaspes. “You sent for me, Lord?“ the Prince of the Arizanti asked with a worried look upon his face. His mind was racing as he tried to think why he had been called to the king’s tent at such an hour. Surely spirits and daemons were all that moved at this hour, he thought to himself, as Cyrus turned first to the slave who had woken him from his sleep and brought him here.

“Leave us!” Cyrus ordered and waited for the slave to do so before he turned to the general and quietly said, “Hystaspes, your son is discovered to be plotting against me and my crown…” Hystaspes gasped in astonishment as his monarch swiftly continued, “I will tell you how I know it so certainly. The gods watch over my safety and warn me beforehand of every danger. Last night, as I lay in my bed, I saw in a vision the eldest of your sons with wings upon his shoulders, shadowing Asia with one wing and Europe with the other.” Again Hystaspes gasped, as Cyrus concluded, “From this it is certain, beyond all possible doubt, that he is engaged in some plot against me.”

As he spoke, Cyrus had been watching the general very closely for his reactions to see if he could discover whether or not Hystaspes was also involved in the plot, whatever it was. He decided however that Hystaspes’ astonishment at hearing Cyrus accuse his son was quite genuine and truly spontaneous as the startled general replied, “Heaven forbid, sire,” Hystaspes protested vehemently, “that there should be any Persian living who would plot against you! If such a traitor does exist, may a speedy death overtake him! You found the Persians a race of slaves and you have made them free men: you found them subject to others and you have made them lords of all. If a vision has announced that my son, Darius, is practising against you, lord, I resign him into your hands to deal with as you will.”

Such readiness to resign his own son to Cyrus’ judgement pleased the king; who had been expecting the general to beg for his son’s life whether or not he himself were implicated in the plot; it said much about Hystaspes’ loyalty to his king and emperor.

“Thank you, Hystaspes” Cyrus responded gratefully, and quickly added, “Your own loyalty to me is beyond question; which is why I’m sending you back to Persia.” Again the general raised his eyebrows in surprise, and then instantly he frowned; he was as puzzled as he was surprised at this latest turn of events; if Cyrus trusted him, why was he sending him back to the capital? Recognizing the cause of his confusion, Cyrus explained, “You are to return at once and ensure that when I return from conquering the Massagetae that you have your son ready to produce before me, so I may examine him. Now inform Pactyas to prepare the army for the day’s march…” Grateful for the chance he realized was being given to him to see for himself whether or not there was any substance to his king’s suspicions, Hystaspes bowed deferentially as he answered, “Yes Sire! At once sire!

*** ***** ***

By sunset of the first day on the enemy’s side of the river, the Massagetae had fallen back a considerable way, and they were followed at a distance of approximately half a league by the Persian army. As the sun started to sink below the horizon both armies stopped and made camp, erecting their tents and pavilions and lighting the usual sentinel and cooking fires. Just as the lower arc of the sun’s disc touched the horizon the expedition was called to a halt. With the familiar ease which comes of many years of practice the wagons were unpacked, tents erected and the cooking and sentinel fires lit; and all before the shrinking upper arc of the sun’s disc at last became a bejewelled sliver before finally disappearing below the horizon; and while they prepared their camp for the evening, the colours in the twilight sky gradually changed from blues tinged with magenta, through pinks and golds to fiery oranges, which darkened to a deep blood-red, tinged with purple; and finally to the deepest shades of indigo as the sky darkened and night began.

By the time darkness was complete the army’s priests had performed the evening sacrifice; and the entire carcasses of the victims were slowly roasting on spits which were turned by slaves over the cooking fires. Wine had been mixed in huge bowls and then placed on the tables which surrounded the cooking fires, while wineskins full of the finest of Persia’s wines were laid out ready nearby to refill them; large golden and silver goblets were already filled and placed on trestle-tables, waiting to be drunk. Soon the evening meal would be ready.

Everything proceeded as normal; all those who were privy to Cyrus’ plans were extremely careful to behave as if this were just an ordinary evening’s camp just like any other. Cyrus had previously instructed Pactyas to oversee the selection of those who were doomed to remain in camp to guard the feast himself. These now waited patiently in their ignorance, while the majority of the army fell back towards the river after Cyrus had suddenly emerged from his tent and loudly proclaimed that his scouts had discovered an attempt by the treacherous Scythians to circle around behind them and strike at their rear.

After a short while, one of these guards grew impatient for the army’s return so they could begin to eat the feast which was spread so deliciously and so invitingly before them. But it was not only his appetite which prompted his impatience; looking around him, he could not help but feel somewhat exposed. They had camped so close to the enemy camp that he realized quickly that their delicious and oh-so-tempting evening meal could not only be seen, but also smelled very easily, by the enemy. Whatever the size of the force the enemy might have sent to outflank them, he realized that the main body of their host were most certainly still in their camp, which was down-wind of the Persian camp; and only a few hundred paces away. As time wore on and the cooking progressed, the tempting aromas gradually became almost irresistible; the proximity of the enemy made him increasingly nervous.

Turning to one of his fellow guards he said, “I know Cyrus is a great general, and if he says he has discovered an enemy plan to attack our rear, then of course he must pull back toward the river to protect us, yet I can’t help feeling just a little bit exposed with so few of us here to guard the army’s meal for their return.” “I know what you mean.” his comrade responded with a brief laugh, “But I don’t think there’s much to fear; Cyrus has never been wrong yet!” The first guard just looked at him, and said cynically, “It’s truly touching how much faith you have in your king!”

*** ***** ***

Less than fifty paces away, hidden behind a large bush, was a Massagetae spy, who, as soon as he witnessed the Persian army’s withdrawal, ran back to his own camp to inform his queen of the Persian army’s curious behaviour. He found Queen Tomyris in counsel with her officers. “It makes no sense, Mother!” Spargapises, Tomyris’ only son, was quite perplexed by his spy’s curious reports, “This man says that Cyrus’ army spent the whole day marching forward, following us as we agreed. Then they prepared a feast… Yet instead of sitting down to eat it, most of the army appears to have withdrawn again towards the river, leaving only a small section to guard their food and supplies; they must surely be planning to return for their meal…”

Tomyris thought for a moment then said, “Perhaps they fear an attack from their rear! They must think we’ve sent a detachment to encircle them and surprise them while they were eating! Hah! These Medes trust no-one! They think everyone else is as devious as they are!”

“Hmmm…” Spargapises said, thoughtfully, “Perhaps we should not disappoint them… If we attack their camp now we can deprive them of their supplies and their meal; by the day after tomorrow, when we have agreed to do battle, they will all be so weak from hunger they will be easy to defeat!”

Tomyris could not help laughing aloud at the thought of thus turning the tables on an enemy who was famous for winning his battles as much through his cunning as through his courage. “An excellent idea, Spargapises…” Tomyris said, “But take no chances, my son; make sure you take a large enough detachment with you to raid the Medes’ camp…”

*** ***** ***

Time passed and the darkness soon deepened to the inky blackness of a moonless night; an effect not alleviated, but if anything, rather heightened by the flickering light given off by innumerable campfires. Paradoxically, while this made the camp itself almost as bright as day, beyond a very limited range outside their glow they only seemed to deepen the inky darkness into which the Persian guards now peered. As the guards continued to peer blindly into this Stygian gloom they began to wonder what was keeping the rest of their army.

Before a full double-hour had passed, however, they heard the sounds they had been waiting for: straining their ears into the darkness they heard the unmistakeable sounds of a large army of booted, marching feet, advancing towards them at the double from the direction of the river. This squadron however had been especially chosen by Pactyas himself; its individual members were recommended to him by their own company’s commanders, who knew the whole of Croesus’ plan. These commanders also knew very well just exactly who the weakest links in their own chains of command were. Thus chosen for it, they were an extremely ill-disciplined lot. As time passed they had very soon broken discipline by sampling the food and wine; so not only were they soon distracted from their duties, but their wits, such as they ever were in the first place, were not presently at their sharpest anyway.

Coupled with this was the cunning of the enemy. In order to minimize his own losses by maximizing the element of surprise as much as he could in his own favour Spargapises’ had his army silently circle round behind the Persian camp just beyond the horizon, so as to approach from the direction of the river. As they finally turned again towards the Persian camp, they made no further attempt to muffle their steps, for they knew they would most probably be mistaken for the Persian army returning to camp; and indeed this is exactly how things turned out. Thinking these footsteps must belong to Cyrus’ army the Persian guards were thus completely taken by surprise. Ill-disciplined and befuddled by wine as they were, they had not even challenged the owners of these rapidly-approaching footsteps; and the darkness hid their identity until the very last moment.

Spargapises’ attack was so swift, so sudden, so unexpected and so ferocious, that it was all over in a few minutes; the guards were slaughtered to a man before they even knew what hit them and Spargapises now had control of the Persian camp. Even the slaves who had been turning the roasting carcases on spits over the fires were butchered.

As he surveyed his handiwork, a Massagetae soldier walked up to Spargapises carrying a platter of food and a large goblet of wine, which he offered to his Prince. “It seems a shame to waste all this food and drink Lord.” the soldier said, “If Cyrus is looking for us to his rear, he will probably go all the way back to the river before he realises there is nothing to fear from that direction…”

Spargapises stared at the young spearman with a puzzled expression on his face, silently demanding further elucidation, “he is not likely to get back until late tomorrow morning at the earliest!” the soldier finished, once again offering the plate and goblet to the prince. “You are right!” Spargapises said, accepting the soldier’s thoughtful offerings, “This little battle has given me quite an appetite… and a thirst! And this Persian food smells so wonderful!”

He tasted a tempting morsel from the plate, and then continued, almost gleefully, “Very well then, we may as well enjoy the feast that our enemies have so generously provided for us!“ In a louder voice he addressed the rest of his army, “Help yourselves to food and drink men; the enemy will not return before morning and we’ll be gone long before then.” His men did not need a second invitation but fell to with a will. The delicious aromas of so much roasting meat, which until the Massagetae invasion had been slowly turned on spits by slaves, were now very nicely cooked; and these tantalizing aromas, delicately flavoured with fragrant and exotic herbs and spices had been tormenting them the whole evening; whetting their appetites ever since sunset; and as it had with their prince, the battle too, had given them all an appetite.

But, just as Croesus had told Cyrus, the Massagetae were completely unfamiliar with wine and its effects, and because after a battle they customarily ate and drank in quantities they felt were appropriately proportional to the victory they had just won, they soon became drunk; and then, deciding they enjoyed the sensation, they became even drunker. Eventually, one by one, they all started to nod off, or, more accurately, to pass out. Even Spargapises was so severely affected by this unusual alcoholic beverage of his enemies, that when the Persian army returned as planned, neither he nor his men were in any position to put up any effective resistance to the near-silent Persian marauders.

Cyrus’ spies had closely watched the movements of the Massagetae from the moment this plan had been decided upon. They had seen the Massagetae spy watching their camp and from their own hidden positions they had observed him run to Tomyris when the Persians retreated. Then they had kept Cyrus informed about Spargapises’ movements and the progress of his attack on Cyrus’ camp as they waited for the right moment. Cyrus had ensured that his men marched back with their footwear muffled with rags for the last few furlongs; and, when the moment was ripe and the Massagetae were all either asleep, passed out, or else too drunk to fight, they silently attacked from out of the shadows. So completely unexpected was their attack that, although a great many of the Scythians were slaughtered, a great many more were taken prisoner as they slept.

*** ***** ***

As Cyrus expected, before noon the following day a herald arrived from Queen Tomyris, the colours of her own royal standard now supplemented by a white flag of truce. “Great lord,” the herald began, “my queen, Tomyris, has sent me to you with these words: ‘Bloodthirsty Cyrus, do not pride yourself on this poor success: it was the grape-juice – which, when you drink it, makes you so mad, and as you swallow it down brings up to your lips such bold and wicked words – it was this poison with which you ensnared my child, and so overcame him, not in fair and open fight. Now listen to what I advise, and be sure I advise you for your own good. Restore my son to me now and leave this land unharmed, triumphant over a third part of the host of the Massagetae. Refuse and I swear by the Sun, the sovereign lord of the Massagetae, that bloodthirsty as you are, I will give you your fill of blood.’”

Cyrus ignored the queen’s threats; they were only to be expected; but he was a bit surprised at this demand for the queen’s son, “So!” Cyrus chuckled with delight, “We have captured the son of Tomyris!” Turning immediately to his general, Pactyas, Cyrus said, “Pactyas, have Spargapises found and brought here to me… “ Then, as Pactyas strode off to obey him he turned back to Tomyris’ herald and said, “Herald, you may inform Tomyris that we have no intention of leaving this country until we have defeated all of the Massagetae! As for her son, I will decide what to do with him after I have spoken with him.”

Presently, Pactyas returned, followed by two large soldiers dragging between them a handsome, well-muscled and long-haired young man in his early twenties. The now-congealed blood on the Massagetae prince’s dark-skinned head and the goose-egg sized yellowish purple lump it failed to hide were his only visible wounds; like many others who had been too drunk to fight, he had simply been clubbed unconscious and then enchained. The hangdog manner in which Spargapises hung his head informed Cyrus of the terrible shame the prince now felt at having been so easily tricked and captured. Such men as this do not make good hostages, Cyrus thought to himself, all too often they either escape or suicide. Either way he realized he was unlikely to be able claim a ransom for this prince, no matter how aristocratic he was, nor how much his mother desired his return.

Instantly Cyrus decided that the best thing to do would be to send him back to Tomyris as a gesture of goodwill and respect for his enemy. “Well then Spargapises,” he said to his captive, “what have you to say for yourself?” Spargapises looked up briefly, but would not meet Cyrus’ gaze, as he shamefacedly admitted, “Great King, you have captured me and made me your slave; but I cannot bear the shame of wearing these fetters! I beg you to have them struck off me and in return I give you my word of honour that I will make no attempt to flee…”

Cyrus was moved with pity for the man’s shame. In any case, he reminded himself, he had already decided to send him home to his mother… “Very well then,” he said, “I shall grant your request… guards, remove his chains.”

The guards obeyed their king immediately, removing the heavy iron fetters from their captive’s hands and feet. But Spargapises had a surprise in store for his captors; as soon as his hands and feet were freed, he snatched a sword from one of the guards and without hesitation stabbed himself with it through the heart. All who were present were stunned by the swiftness and the total unexpectedness of this self-slaughter; but of course, they all now realized that Spargapises had only given his word not to escape; he had said nothing about not harming himself; so he had not lied, but had indeed kept his word. This desperate act, though noble, was not only brutal and futile but also extremely unfortunate; as it took from Cyrus any possibility he may have had of accepting the peaceful retreat which Tomyris had just offered. Whether Spargapises had intended to do so Cyrus could not say; yet his suicide had effectively locked the Persians and the Massagetae on a collision course.

It had nevertheless been an honourable act, Cyrus felt, as he turned once again to the Massagetae herald; and with genuine sadness in his voice, he now said, “Herald, you may inform Tomyris that although I was considering returning her son safely to her, I was prevented from doing so because as soon as I released him from his fetters he destroyed himself. This was not my intention, but regretfully, what is done cannot be changed.” The herald, seeing that there was nothing further to be gained here, bowed respectfully to Cyrus from the saddle and allowed himself to be escorted once more out of the Persian camp.

*** ***** ***

The following morning Tomyris gathered together all of her forces. This time she would show the Persian invaders that they had made a mistake in ever turning their greedy eyes towards the land of the Massagetae. This, of course, was exactly what Cyrus had been expecting; yet although the Massagetae even now outnumbered the Persians by at least two-to-one, he had refrained from harassing the enemy before their battle-lines were ready. It would never do, thought Cyrus, to have it said that the Son of Heaven had won his title with a cowardly or ignoble act; Tomyris’ insult had stung him. But now, he thought to himself, the enemy will learn the meaning of courage! For the Massagetae even now outnumbered him by almost two to one. But by taking on and defeating a much larger and stronger foe, he would thus demonstrate to the whole world not only that he was indeed the Son of Heaven, but also that the Son of Heaven was lacking neither in martial skills nor in courage.

Bronze-tipped arrows fell like rain upon both sides as the two armies approached each other, the missiles gradually thinning out the ranks of both sides until the quivers of the archers were empty and the two hosts closed to fight hand-to-hand with spears and daggers. Of all the battles he had taken part in during his long and exceedingly eventful life, Cyrus had never yet seen one quite as bloody as this. For several hours the fighting continued, with neither side willing to give even an inch of ground; but eventually the superior numbers of the Scythians began to tell as the tide of battle swung slowly in their favour. All too late the Persians realized their predicament as the tide of battle turned against them; it was too late now to do anything but try to withdraw with whatever men could escape, as the Massagetae now attempted to encircle the rapidly-dwindling remnant of the Persian host, which suddenly broke and ran. Massagetae cavalry, armed with brass-tipped lances, now chased down their fleeing foes as they took their revenge for their fallen prince and his comrades; almost all of Cyrus’ remaining troops were slaughtered as they ran; although the Great King himself refused to run and died nobly, facing the enemy bravely and fighting to the last.

When the battle was finished, Tomyris had some of her men search the battlefield for the body of Cyrus. While she was waiting for their return, she constructed a wooden frame from which she suspended skins, which she then greased to make them waterproof; thus forming a sort of leather basin. This she then filled with human blood taken from the corpses of her dead enemies; and when the body of Cyrus was finally discovered she had it beheaded, and, holding the head of her enemy by its long dark hair in her right hand, she dipped it in the blood-filled leather basin, saying as she did so, “Well then Cyrus! I live and have conquered you in battle, and yet by you I am ruined, for you took my son by guile; but thus I make good my threat, and give you your fill of blood.”

THE END