by Jay Penner
Two guards on patrol walked by, and Callisthenes began to chant while slowly swaying. “By Apollo! By the power of—"
They stared at the mad man, saluted Eumenes, and continued. At a distance, behind the mountains, a gentle glow began to suffuse the sky. Soon there would be activity, and that would not bode well for either of them.
“You need to hurry up, or we will run out of time.”
“I opened the box to find some papyrus scrolls. The first two pages were an incomplete letter from Plato, to a man called Axiandros. The rest were from an ancient, unknown author and each page was in two scripts—one I did not recognize, and its old Greek translation.” Callisthenes paused and gulped nervously.
“When I read it, I thought my head would explode!”
Now Eumenes was intrigued. “Well, get to it then.”
Callisthenes leaned forward; his feral face close to Eumenes. “Atlantis!”
“What?”
“Atlantis,” Callisthenes hissed, his expression maniacal.
“What about Atlantis?”
“Atlantis is real, and they left behind an intact city, you fool!”
Eumenes stepped back, and quick anger rose in him. Here he was, risking his life and entertaining the notions of this mad man. He gripped the bar of the cage. “I wish you peace in the afterlife, Callisthenes,” he said and turned to leave.
“No!” Callisthenes shouted, and desperately grabbed Eumenes’ cape, startling him. “Eumenes, I appear a wretched creature, but have I ever seemed to you as of unsound mind?”
Eumenes paused. Callisthenes was right—there was not an instance he could recollect where this man's behavior bordered madness. But Atlantis? “Atlantis is a story in Plato’s book, Callisthenes, we both know that. Scholars have told us it was a warning about the greed of empires, nothing more,” he said, with clenched teeth.
“That is because Plato hid the truth!” Callisthenes said excitedly. “There indeed was Atlantis, except Plato did not complete the story and did not reveal all he knew of it."
Eumenes rubbed his stubble, scratched his scalp under the helmet, and tried hard to hide his growing excitement. “So, what is the real Atlantis?”
Callisthenes grinned. He placed his forehead on the bars and stared intently at Eumenes, the whites of his eyes burning through the slowly dissipating darkness. “Procure my freedom, Eumenes, for there is more that I can share.”
“While this is interesting, why should Alexander care for a mythical ancient empire?”
“You are no village simpleton, Eumenes, ask yourself why!”
“I have no time to—”
“The ancient scrolls tell the story of Atlantis, and in riddles, they mention the location of a new city the ancients left behind before they vanished. Plato claims that to be true, and from a trusted source. But it is not just a ruined city—”
“New city? Where are these papers?”
Callisthenes made a show of bashing his head against the bars. “In Craterus’ possession. That loud mouth has no idea what is under his lock-and-key.”
Eumenes groaned. Not Craterus! “What does it look like?”
“It is in a plain iron box decorated with a scene of the great Zeus overseeing a teacher and his pupils. The scrolls are in an innocuous leather package, with the distinct symbol of a bull on it. The box was handed to him during my trial, to safe keep as royal records and never open.”
“He thinks they are pages of the royal diary?”
Callisthenes nodded ruefully.
Eumenes fell silent. There was no question that if he tried anything to get hold of that box, Craterus would not only oppose it but would get suspicious.
“What were you hoping to get from this revelation?”
"My life! If the generals find out then I assure you, Eumenes, we will see mutiny and bloodbath.”
“And what do I tell Alexander?”
“Tell him what I told you. And that I had no part in the conspiracy, and that I am giving him the greatest secret of our times, and that I will help him find it.”
“You seem to be confident that no one else can decode the riddles.”
Callisthenes grinned again. “I have spent years trying to decode them, dear Eumenes. And I assure you that there is only one man on this divine earth who has a clue where the new city of the Atlanteans is.”
“You.”
Callisthenes slapped the bars of the cage and nodded vigorously. Specs of fine dust flew from his dirty hair, and Eumenes stepped back to avoid the contamination.
“How do you know there are not just a few bars of gold and ten rusted swords?”
“The ancient papers make it clear. If you find the city the Atlanteans left behind, you win the world. Imagine the implications.”
Eumenes feigned irritation. “That is vague. I need to know more to be able to report this and provide a sense of impact.”
Callisthenes shook his head. “No, Eumenes. There must be a sense of fairness. Alexander may not be swayed by the immense scale of treasures and profound knowledge that this city contains, but he will wish to acquire the fantastical weapons the ancients designed that will make him invincible now, and forever.”
Callisthenes stopped again to wheeze and catch his breath, as he stared at Eumenes. “I am sure the King will reward you handsomely for bringing this to him.”
Eumenes pressed one last time. "How do I know this is not your delirious mind? That this is a ploy to get yourself out of this cage?"
"If my words are untrue then the King will put me to the cruelest death, so there is nothing in it for me to deceive you.”
Eumenes, a great reader of men, sensed the truth behind the frantic voice. Truth, if used wisely and strategically, had the power to change fortunes and empires; but if revealed prematurely to the wrong people, cause great bloodshed in its quest. As the slice of gold appeared on the horizon and the sounds of the early morning became louder, it was time for Eumenes to go.
He bid goodbye to the historian, promised that he would take this to the King post haste and that he looked forward to reuniting with Callisthenes in the royal tents, friends again, and embarking on a grand adventure.
Eumenes’ heart thundered in his chest as he walked away, and he did not look back as he was unable to meet the hopeful eyes.
HELLESPONT, PHRYGIA
❖
Eumenes’ recounting of Callisthenes’ words matched with what I had read in the papyri and I now had no reason to doubt the Governor. I recounted my saga; the failed attempt during the raid, Ptolemy’s subterfuge, my stealing of the papyri, the contents inside, and finally the events in Damascus where I hid the papers in an abandoned old temple by the side of a mountain facing the city. It seemed like he held his breath as I spoke, and when I finished, he let out a gentle sigh.
“Astonishing,” he said, finally. And then bitterly complained about Ptolemy. And we both sat quietly for a while, each wondering what to say next.
“So, Callisthenes was not lying, and that is assuming an ancient fraudster did not trick Plato?”
“That is right, sir.”
“I have heard and seen the excitement of finding lost tombs with treasure, but nothing at this scale…” he trailed away as if lost in thought.
“There was a reason they were so fanatical about keeping it a secret, and why Plato decided not to reveal it to the world.”
Eumenes nodded.
“May I ask something, sir?”
As if he read my mind, Eumenes said precisely what I was thinking. “But how much of what Plato wrote was true?”
I laughed. I too wondered about that.
In his works Plato had gone to great lengths to describe Atlantis—it was beyond the pillars of Hercules; three great concentric water rings from three to one stade wide encircled a magnificent temple of Poseidon and a royal palace in the center, an enormous canal three-hundred-foot wide, a hundred-foot deep, and fifty stades long cut through the concentric circles of land and water; the st
one from the central island was black, white, and red.
“Plato’s source was Critias, his grandfather, who supposedly heard it from his grand-father who heard it from the great Solon, who said he heard the story from a high priest of Sais in Egypt. We can expect some loss of fidelity and accuracy with the number of people involved in transmitting the story.” Eumenes said.
“Besides, we have no account of Atlantis except in Plato’s work. None.” I said. For a story so fascinating it was notable there was absolutely no other source for the Atlantis story, and I had read a great many works of famous writers and philosophers. I had even heard that Aristotle, Plato's pupil himself, has scoffed at the story.
Eumenes got up from his cushion and began to pace around. I could see the thinker in him get excited—this topic was far more interesting than what occupied him recently—betrayal, war, murder. “Remember, Plato was a philosopher. He intended to make an impact with his messages. Atlantis gave him a chance to speak of hubris, greed, and divine anger, and infuse his treatise with excitement for the victory of Athenians against a foreign power. Was Atlantis exactly as he described? We cannot know. I do think he exaggerated greatly, but the description of the destroyed city could very well be true, but not at the scale he wrote,” he said, as he absent-mindedly picked up his well-worn idol of Zeus and traced his fingers on the thunderbolt.
Exaggerations were very common, as I had seen in my journeys. I had often heard of fantastical beasts, monsters, and all kinds of wonders before my trips to the East, and yet when we arrived there—the men were men, and the beasts were different but nothing of the type the storytellers described. Similarly, I too was confident that Plato magnified the details of Atlantis to appeal to the reader and chose not to tell the story of a second city. And since god destroyed the original empire, there was no way for anyone to call Plato a liar.
“All we know in his brief story is what happened to people of Atlantis, and that they left behind a hidden city. In that hidden city we may find out more about them and the original Atlantis,” he said and began to polish the idol in his hand with a beautiful silk cloth that he pulled from a bag.
“The Egyptian priests said they existed nine thousand years ago!” I said, still marveling at it.
Eumenes stopped and looked at me as if I were a gullible fool. “That is nonsense. I have heard a great many stories of our ancestors, and yet except Plato’s story there is nothing about a great empire that existed nine thousand years ago.”
“Maybe a few thousand?”
“Maybe. I have heard through a famed Phoenician scholar that long ago there existed another glorious city called Tartessos, but it is somewhere near the end of the world.”
“What do you—”
A messenger interrupted us. Craterus was on his way and would be here in less than ten days. The two-faced scoundrel Neoptolemus would be with him.
It was time to prepare for Eumenes’ greatest test.
Eight days had passed since the battle with Neoptolemus. The time to fight Craterus neared. I debated many times if I should press Eumenes on my release and rewards, but decided not to, given the circumstances.
After the morning war council concluded, Eumenes turned to me. “It is not skills, capability, weather, or terrain that I worry about.”
“Then?” I asked.
“I worry about desertion on the battleground.”
I had a hunch of what he meant. Eumenes continued, “Craterus is a god to many Macedonian soldiers. I worry that when our cavalry sees the man, they will abandon me and go to him.”
“Do you think they revere him so much that they would desert their commander?” I asked.
“Yes. Do you remember Craterus' roles in the siege of Tyre, the great battle of Gaugamela, and so many other battles on the way to and return from India? They love him.”
“But still—” I started, and Eumenes cut me short.
“Many Macedonians still see me as a secretary, no matter how much I have proved otherwise!” Eumenes looked sad. I pitied the man—but such was the politics.
“Are you sure that Craterus will be on the battlefield?” I asked.
Eumenes walked behind me and boxed my ear. “You hitch your hopes on the flimsiest of threads.”
I hung my head in mock shame.
“You wish that instead of Craterus there will appear a beautiful Greek princess to make love to you on the battlefield,” Eumenes continued. The levity helped, but there was no question that the real threat was the stature of Craterus. As we contemplated the situation, I remembered something worth telling him.
“Governor, there is an interesting folklore worth hearing,” I said.
He narrowed his eyes and pushed his chin outward. I started, “Long ago, deep in the mountains of Sparta, there was a village. They lived away from war and knew no conflict. Harvest was plentiful, and they reared sheep, goat, and foal to keep themselves full and happy.
“Soon, there arose a problem, for there was an old lion in the nearby mountain that learned of this village.
“He began to come down every so often, menaced the people, and savaged their prized animals. The villagers, untrained in violence, tried to appease the lion with sacrifices.”
Eumenes interjected. “What is your point?”
I requested him to listen to me, and he asked me to continue.
“But the lion kept coming, for he knew he could eat with no effort. The frightened villagers now gave him what he wanted. One day a traveler from far away joined them, and what he saw surprised him. He told the chief of the village that he would solve their problem if they rewarded him. The villagers approved.
“The traveler left to a land far away and returned with a pack of wild dogs. The angry beasts snared their teeth and dripped saliva—they feared no one.
“The lion came down again, and he looked at the dogs with arrogance. But the dogs had never seen a lion before.”
Eumenes had stopped breathing—he looked at me with his bright eyes, and his face broke into a cunning grin.
The hot sun was on our face, the air still and humid, and sweat flowed down our hair and neck wetting the battle dress. Critters in the grass buzzed and the vast assemblage of troops chattered impatiently. Eumenes fielded an infantry of fifteen thousand men, including three thousand Argyraspides, the “Silver Shields,” once Alexander’s finest troops. The cavalry was a mix of Macedonian and Cappadocian horsemen.
Eumenes had positioned the army along the gentle slopes of a valley. A low hill in-between hid Craterus’ and the traitor Neoptolemus’ armies. Eumenes had spread misinformation that we would face Neoptolemus and Pigres—a barbarian warlord. The commanders told the soldiers that Craterus had left for Egypt.
Cavalry protected the phalanxes on either side. Eumenes was about to take charge of his biggest, and most important battle yet. Spies told us that the enemy had assumed a classical formation. Craterus' cavalry on the left and Neoptolemus on the right guarded the central phalanx.
On our side, the formation mirrored the enemies. To our extreme right, facing Neoptolemus, was the Eumenes’ cavalry. Most of the men were Macedonian.
In our center was the Macedonian phalanx. At the heart of it were the Argyraspides—the silver shields—now nearing their sixties and formidable as ever.
To the left, where I was, was the Cappadocian cavalry led by a man named Pharnabazus. He was taller than most of us and dressed in a deep blue flowing Cappadocian tunic. He was bare above his torso, and his long beard, speckled with gray, conveyed a noble bearing. He wore large brass ear-rings, his eyebrows were thick and knotted, and he drew dark lines on his eyebrows. Pharnabazus slapped my shoulder in appreciation once he learned of my service by Alexander's side. This Asian cavalry under Pharnabazus would face off Craterus. A Cappadocian told me that Pharnabazus was a royal and had fought Alexander in the earlier years. Apparently whatever he did had not earned Alexander’s wrath, and the man was not only alive but was now fighting on behalf of Alexander�
��s former secretary.
Water bearers went around to quench the thirst of the men. The sun poured fire on our heads and our patience began to thin. There was a commotion in front of me, and I heard one of the riders berate another beside him.
“Don’t piss on my horse’s leg, you scoundrel!”
“But I had to go! It’s your horse, not your wife!”
“But how do you know it’s not his wife?” another voice chimed.
“I swear I will come down and give you a beating you short bowlegged dog—”
“Quiet or I will have you whipped!” The booming voice of one of their commanders silenced the men.
We waited.
Eumenes came galloping towards us. He looked every bit Alexander in his attire and demeanor, and the officers bowed in deference. He ordered three of us—Pharnabazus, Phoenix of Tenedos, and me to come before him. He patted his horse, and his weary eyes scanned us as he spoke,
“The time is near. Craterus’ forces wait behind those hills, and spotters tell us that they prepare for battle. I intend to surprise them. I will charge Neoptolemus. Pharnabazus and Phoenix, rush Craterus and give no quarter. Let no man escape to tell our infantry or cavalry that it is Craterus that commands them.”
He turned to me, “Deon, I know your heart aches to charge and engage the enemy—but I need your counsel. I order you to stay in the middle of the formation and direct the affairs to contain Craterus. But do not engage the enemy unless they break through your protective ring.”
“Yes, sir.” I felt a pang of jealousy that I would not lead the cavalry attack. While it had been a few years since my injury, deep wounds never heal, and I knew I would never be as effective as I once was. Besides, the years had taken a toll on me, both physical and mental, and the guilt and desperation to free my family had grown stronger and not faded.
