The building we saw was actually the third incarnation of the temple. The original version, according to legend, was built by the Amazons, who roamed Anatolia in the mythical days of Troy and who considered Artemis a kindred spirit. That temple was destroyed by a violent storm, allegedly unleashed as a result of a family spat between Zeus, who was Artemis’s father, and his wife Hera, who was definitely not her mother.
The second version of the temple was built by Ionian Greeks, during that initial flowering of prosperity that also gave the world the first crop of Ionian philosophers. That version was underwritten by Kroisos of Lydia, who lived in nearby Sardeis and could well afford to pay. It was built under the supervision of a Kretan architect named Chersiphron and completed perhaps a hundred years before the construction of the Athenian Parthenon. It was the first Greek temple constructed entirely of marble and it was huge, much larger than the Parthenon, with many more and much taller columns. While not as finely wrought as the exquisite Parthenon, the Artemision remained, throughout its existence, the biggest and arguably most impressive temple in the Greek world. It was universally acknowledged as one of the Seven Wonders of the World.
Tragically, this second iteration of the temple was destroyed in 230 Z.E., burned to the ground by a lunatic named Herostratos, who sought to achieve immortality by his heinous act of cultural vandalism. The Ephesians not only executed him, as one would have expected them to do, but also passed a law that made it a capital crime to write or utter his name. Yet, in one of history’s typical, wanton jests, everybody in the Greek world knew the name of the temple’s arsonist but very few people remembered the name of its architect. As soon as Herostratos had been killed (but not forgotten), the Ephesians started once again to rebuild the temple.
As it happened, 230 Z.E. was also the year in which Alexandros was born.[11] Word of the destruction of the Artemision reached Pella a few weeks after Alexandros’s birth. When Aristandros heard the news, he did a quick calculation and concluded that the temple must have been destroyed the same night as Olympias gave birth to her prophesied son. He pronounced the coincidence a portentous omen of Alexandros’s future greatness. (I was not there, so I don’t know how he reached that conclusion but I could make a shrewd guess.)
By the time Alexandros’s father, King Philippos Deuteros, dispatched the initial expeditionary corps across the Hellespont, twenty years later, to prepare the ground for the main-force invasion of Asia, the Temple of Artemis had been more or less completely rebuilt. The columns, walls, and roof were back, standing as tall, proud, and dazzling as they had before the great fire; only some of the architectural details, decorations, and furnishings were still in the process of being completed. When the Macedonian expeditionary corps, commanded by Parmenion and Attalos, stormed Ephesos, almost exactly two years prior to our arrival, they were welcomed by the Ephesians as liberators. The Persian garrison was forced to flee, the ruling oligarchs were expelled, and a new, populist government was installed. In fact, so grateful were the citizens of Ephesos for their liberation that they installed, at their own cost, a statue of King Philippos in the Artemision, standing in the naos, right next to the goddess herself. Even though Philippos’s likeness was considerably smaller than Artemis’s cult figure, the Ephesians’ gesture was an unprecedented honor, verging dangerously close to blasphemy.
Eventually, Dareios deigned to take notice of the Macedonian invasion of Ionia and dispatched his top commander to clean up the mess. Memnon successfully reconquered all of the Ionian cities liberated by Parmenion and Attalos. In Ephesos, Memnon’s troops killed the leaders of the populist government, installed a government of oligarchic Persian collaborators, and smashed the statue of Philippos in the Artemision.
Memnon went on to put out other fires on behalf of his emperor, continuing from victory to victory, until that fateful encounter against Alexandros at the Granikos River, where he was not in overall command and where his troops were roundly defeated and massacred. Now, he was back in Ephesos (as far as we knew), organizing the city’s defenses against an assault by Alexandros’s army.
*******
We continued to stare at the Artemision as darkness gradually enveloped Ephesos. The city seemed strangely deserted. I could see occasional groups of men running down streets and disappearing into houses; otherwise, all seemed eerily quiet. We were standing too far above the city to hear any sounds emanating from the streets but it appeared, from where we stood, that there was nothing to hear, even if we had been standing in the middle of the agora. Then, as we watched, a flame flared up in one of the houses.
It’s like watching stars twinkling into existence, one by one, in the darkening sky, I thought. First, one house started to burn, then another, then another. Pretty soon, there were dozens of buildings burning throughout the city. And the streets were now full of running people, some chasing, some fleeing. When the chasers caught up to the fleers, the fleers invariably ended up lying motionless in the streets while the chasers set off in pursuit of other prey.
“What in Haides is going on?” Alexandros wanted to know. “Mithrines, get down there and find out! I want an answer by dawn. And don’t you dare double-cross me, you double-crossing scum. If you do, we’ll find you and we’ll squash you like the toad that you are.”
Mithrines took no offense. “Sire, why would I wish to double-cross your highness? It would be like finding myself warmed by the rays of the Sun and choosing to run away to the comforts of a cold rock. Trust me, your majesty; I’m your faithful servant for life.”
Alexandros didn’t seem entirely convinced by this effluence of eyewash. “Just get down there and be back before dawn!”
The rest of us dug in and made a fortified camp in the heights, in case any Ephesian defenders decided to sally out of the city overnight.
Mithrines was back well before dawn. “The democrats are slaughtering the oligarchs,” he reported breathlessly.
Alexandros didn’t appear too terribly upset by this turn of events. “What happened to the Persian garrison?” he wanted to know.
“They withdrew to Miletos, sire, when they got wind of your approach, sire.”
“And what about Memnon?”
“Oh, he withdrew along with the garrison, I imagine.”
“So there’s no one left to oppose us, is that what you’re telling me?”
“On the contrary, your majesty, the population is anxiously awaiting your arrival.”
“For once, the oligarchs might be more anxious to welcome us than the democrats,” Hephaistion observed.
“Are those the guys who’ve been helping the Persians for the past two years?” Alexandros asked innocently.
“The very same,” Mithrines affirmed.
“Well, we’ll be down as soon as it’s safe for us to come in.”
The young Macedonian king, already renowned for his fearlessness and speed of action, then took two days to prepare us for an unopposed, one-mile march into the undefended city. The oligarchs were mostly dead by the time we arrived. The surviving population seemed happy enough to see us, although their enthusiasm was probably mitigated somewhat by the knowledge they had been liberated by another Macedonian army just two years earlier, only to find the liberators hastily withdrawing a few weeks later, to be replaced by the returning Persian occupiers. Now, the Persian occupiers had withdrawn and the Macedonian liberators were back. Unsurprisingly, there was a dearth of local leaders willing to step forward to lead the welcoming cheers.
Alexandros made a beeline for the Artemision, to which he felt an understandable, congenital tie. He organized and then took a leading role in elaborate sacrifices and thanksgiving services conducted at the outdoor altar situated just to the side of the temple. Afterward, he toured the unfinished edifice, trailed by a phalanx of fluttering priests, and donated some captured shields and armor for display in the completed sanctuary. Returning to the front steps, he explained to the priests the close connection that existed between his family and the god
dess. He offered to cover the costs of completing the rebuilding of the temple and asked for nothing more in return than a modest epigraph at the entrance recording his contribution to the reconstruction effort. The priests politely but firmly refused his offer, perhaps because of their unfortunate experience with the statue of his father or perhaps because they had (well-founded) doubts about the state of his treasury, which was, at that moment, once again nearly empty.
We were finally leaving Artemis’s sacred precinct when Alexandros discovered that Apelles, one of the most famous painters of the era, happened to be in Ephesos at that moment. “Have him at headquarters tomorrow morning, with his brushes, paints, and assistants,” he ordered. Then, he set off in search of a suitable place to establish his headquarters.
*******
Barsine and the children reached the site of the solitary light shortly after dawn. It was in the middle of a roadside clearing. There was no homestead; there was no torch; there was no torchbearer. All they found were the glowing embers of a camp fire someone had used to keep warm during the night. The solitary sojourner (she saw only one set of footprints and one set of hoofprints) was gone by the time they arrived. On further reflection, it was perhaps for the best that the traveler was gone.
They hid in a stand of poplars beyond the far side of the clearing and rested. While the children slept, Barsine hunted for food. She didn’t have far to go. Following her nose and her ears, she discovered a small, clear, cool stream tinkling nearby. After slaking her thirst, she picked lotus leaves and fashioned them into cornucopias, which she filled with ripe, juicy blackberries, sweet wheatgrass shoots, and wild asparagus spears. She added a sprinkling of mashed night crawlers to each and brought them back to her sleeping children. She breastfed her youngest and fell asleep with the baby curled in her arms. When she awoke, she found the rest of her children munching on the lotus leaves, having consumed all of the nature’s bounty their mother had packed inside. The children continued to nibble, sip, and doze for the rest of the day, while Barsine continued to worry.
They resumed their eastward trek shortly after sundown. Although it was still daylight, Barsine couldn’t wait any longer. She dreaded another night stumbling along in the dark and she was afraid they’d walk right by the hoped-for homestead without ever realizing it. As it turned out, their destination was only another hour away. The walled compound was impossible to miss, even in the dying dusk of the fast-fading day. It loomed like a huge, squat monster, crouching on a rise, beyond a thick fringe of trees, up a narrow, meandering path from the road. No light was visible from within.
She knocked on the gate, timidly at first. Engendering no response, she gradually increased the vehemence of her pounding but to no avail. Perhaps the place was deserted, although someone had carefully barred the door before leaving and there was no evidence of a conflagration or a sack.
She continued to hammer her fists against the hard wood for a long time, driven on by stubbornness and despair. Finally, she slumped to the ground. “Why have you forsaken me?” she cried out, then immediately clamped a hand over her mouth in terror. They were still close enough to the road for any passerby to have heard her.
Someone had heard her inside the homestead. “Who are you?” a gruff voice asked in Aramaic.
She tried to convince herself that the voice sounded familiar. “Phraortes, is that you?”
“They were all killed years ago,” the voice answered, dashing her hopes. “But not by us,” the voice hastened to add, rekindling a spark of optimism. “This place was vacant when Emperor Dareios gave it to my master in return for services rendered.” So much for any chance of salvation.
Barsine fought off the seductive embrace of resignation. Drawing a deep breath, she pleaded. “Please give us shelter. My children are starving.”
“Wait there,” she was told.
After what seemed like an eternity, a head appeared in an opening in the wall high above the gate. “The master says we can’t admit anyone in the middle of the night.”
“We’ll wait till the morning.”
“I wouldn’t do that,” the voice advised. “The master also gave orders to kill you and your brats if you’re still here at daybreak.”
“But that’s crazy,” she protested. “Even if your master doesn’t believe in his duty of hospitality, he should at least want to take us captive. We might have some value to him.”
“Exactly. He’s doing you a kindness by not enslaving you.”
Barsine was speechless.
“And he did send some food. Just promise you’ll be gone before dawn.”
“I promise.” Barsine wearily watched as a basket slowly descended from the crack in the wall. It was full of bread, olives, and dates. There was even some olive oil and a jug of water.
“Thank you. And please thank your master.”
The grizzled old head bobbed happily in the opening high up on the wall. “Where will you go?” he asked as she distributed the food among the children.
“I have no idea.”
“Go west,” the old man advised. “There is a village half-a-day’s walk from here. Well, maybe a full day with those little ones. But be careful. You’ll come across an official government station before you get to the village. You might want to get off the road and skirt around that station. I don’t think they take kindly to people using the road without an imperial pass.”
Barsine nodded, too busy eating to answer aloud.
“There is a common house in the village,” the old man continued. “They’ll take you in, especially if you can afford to pay.”
Barsine nodded again, sending the empty basket back up.
“Just be sure you’re gone from here before dawn.”
And they were.
*******
“You must keep still, your majesty,” Apelles implored, not for the first time. “Otherwise, the painting will not do you justice.”
We were all munching on figs and cucumbers and sipping the local wine, sprawled across couches in the dining hall of a recently deceased oligarch, whose former home had become our headquarters in Ephesos. Alexandros, sitting atop Boukephalas in the middle of the room, in full armor, with his helmet under one arm and brandishing a sword with the other, was getting tired, hot, and impatient. “How long can this possibly take?” he wanted to know.
“Great art takes time, sire,” Apelles assured him.
“Even Boukephalas could paint a good picture,” Alexandros snorted, “given enough time. It’s speed of execution that differentiates the master from the hack.” He gave a barely perceptible nudge to Boukephalas’s ribs and the horse neighed its assent.
All of us, including Apelles, broke into laughter at the animal’s timely interjection.
“See, even my horse thinks you’re too slow,” Alexandros observed with mock seriousness. “Now, who’s next?”
“The ambassadors from Tralles and Magnesia are waiting outside,” Hephaistion announced. “They’re here to offer the surrender of their cities.”
“See, now that’s fast,” Alexandros observed. “Not only are these Ionian cities beautiful but they can surrender faster than Apelles here can paint.”
Hephaistion concurred. “I guess that makes them great surrenderers.”
“And here I thought Parmenion did a great job conquering them the first time around.”
“Sire, I never claimed personal credit for our victories in Ionia,” protested Parmenion, rising to the bait, as usual.
“Just kidding, Parmenion. Calm down. You’ve been a great commander for many years. All you have to do now is develop a sense of humor.”
“Yes, sire – sorry.”
“I actually have another assignment for you but let’s hear from these ambassadors first.”
Two fearful men were shown in. They were both physically large, elegantly dressed noblemen but it was obvious they weren’t impressive people. Upon entering, they prostrated themselves at the feet of Boukephalas and didn’t rise
until told to do so by Hephaistion.
They handed over the gifts they had brought, including official dispatches from their respective ruling cliques. Hephaistion bid them to read the dispatches out loud, which they proceeded to do, in flawless Greek. After an endless string of greetings and salutations, each letter described in effusive terms the pleasure of the citizens of Tralles and Magnesia at their forthcoming liberation and each professed eternal allegiance to Alexandros and the Argead dynasty.
“Our welcome to you, exalted ruler, is heartfelt and unconditional,” the Magnesian ambassador added, after he finished reading. “All we ask is a remission of the oppressive tribute that has been imposed on us by the Persian emperor, which he uses to buy more mercenaries to oppose you and to oppress us.”
“Thank you, honored ambassadors, for your gifts,” Alexandros said, from on high. (Boukephalas was a very large horse.) “And we welcome your cities into our Hellenic League. It’s high time the cities of Ionia rejoined the family of the Greek cities of the mainland whose offspring they are. We gather you into our bosom as a parent would embrace a long-lost child. You’ll forgive me if I don’t get off my horse to give you an actual embrace but Apelles over there would be very cross with me if I did.”
“Of course, your royal highness. Thank you, your majesty. We’re humbled by your graciousness.” The ambassadors couldn’t stop bowing and scraping.
“There are only a couple of minor details that we’ll need to attend to,” Alexandros continued. “As you know, we don’t tolerate tyrants, autocrats, or oligarchic cliques. My soldiers will visit your cities soon to supervise the creation of democratically elected governments.”
Flood Tide Page 12
