by Mika Waltari
“You came at an opportune moment, stranger,” he said. “My mind is restless and smolders like ashes in a breeze. What do you want of me?”
To test his views I lauded Aesculapius, the fame of the temple and the wisdom of the physicians of Cos.
He replied, “A white beard is not always a sign of wisdom. Tradition hampers fully as much as it cures.”
His words startled me. “Mikon,” I said, “the world is large and knowledge does not grow only in one place. You are not yet old. Why remain here in the path of the Persians?”
He reached out a friendly hand. “Cos is not the only place I know. I have traveled through many lands, even as far as Egypt; I speak several languages and am familiar with diseases unknown here. What is it that you want of me?”
His touch was as familiar as that of an old friend. “Mikon, perhaps we all are slaves of fate. You are the kind of man needed by our commander. I am to point you out to him, whereupon his men will hit you over the head and drag you aboard our vessel.”
He did not flinch but looked at me questioningly. “Why are you warning me? Your face is not that of a Greek.”
As he looked at me I felt an irresistible power surging through me, raising my arms, palms downward, towards the golden thread of the new moon.
“I don’t know why I am warning you,” I admitted. “I don’t even know who I am. I only know that the moment of departure has arrived for you as well as for me.”
“Then let us go!” He laughed, tucked his hand in my arm and led me to Dionysius.
Bewildered by the suddenness of it, I asked, “Don’t you want to bid farewell to anyone, or to collect your clothes and possessions?”
“If I leave, I shall leave as I am,” he declared, “otherwise my departure will have little meaning. It would be helpful, of course, if I had my medicine case, but I fear that my departure would be prevented even though I have not yet given my oath.”
Dionysius warned him against returning. “But if you come with me voluntarily, I shall reward you suitably.”
“Voluntarily or by compulsion-they are but words,” Mikon said cheerfully. “Only that will happen to me which must happen and which I cannot prevent.”
We led him between us to the galley. Dionysius had the conch blown to summon the men, and our three vessels rowed out into a sea that had turned a calm amethyst. The moon of the merciless virgin goddess shone thinly in the sky as we left the harbor of Cos.
5.
We rowed far out into the open sea until not even a shadow of land was visible. The rowers began to pant and some of them threw up the good food that they had eaten at Cos. They cursed Dionysius and raged that there was no sense to such rowing, since the first principles of seamanship demanded that one keep in sight of land and know where one was going.
Dionysius listened laughingly to their enraged complaints and lashed at the most garrulous with his rope, not so much in anger as in benevolence. They called him ugly names but none of them stopped rowing until he ordered the galleys to be brought together and fastened for the night.
“Not that I pity you,” he said, “but the intoxication of battle has probably faded, leaving your brains even more wretched than your bodies. So gather around me, for I have much to tell you.”
As Dionysius spoke, he did not remind the men of their bravery at Lade. Instead he compared them to the poor peasant who has come to the city to buy a donkey but has spent his money on wine, become involved in a fight, and awakened the following morning in a strange house, his robe torn and bloody and his shoes gone. He is surrounded by riches and treasure chests and realizes that he has broken into the home of some noble. Far from pleasing him, the sight of the riches horrifies him, for he realizes that at that very moment he is being pursued and has no hope of ever returning home.
Dionysius paused and looked around. “That is the situation in which you are, my friends. But thank the immortals that you have chosen a commander who knows what he wants. I, Dionysius, son of Phocaea, will not desert you. Nor do I demand that you follow me merely because I am stronger and shrewder than any of you, and a better navigator as well. Think carefully. Is any one of you better qualified to command than I? If so, let him step forth and say so to my face.”
No one came forward to question Dionysius’ authority, so he finally revealed his plans.
“Because lonia is lost we cannot return to Phocaea. But the Persian fleet is repairing its damages and is committed to blockading Miletus. and its allies. Thus the sea is open and I shall sacrifice to Poseidon that he may give us a strong west wind tomorrow morning.”
The men cried out in dismay, but Dionysius raised his voice triumphantly. “Yes, a west wind, so that you can rest your miserable limbs. and let the wind carry us to enemy waters as far as the shores of Phoenicia. There we will find the slow-moving merchant vessels with their bellies full of the riches of East and West, for trade must continue even in wartime. A quick voyage through enemy waters and within a month, I swear, we will be rich men, richer than we ever dreamed of being when we lived in the sooty wooden huts of Phocaea.”
But the men showed little interest in the plan. The thought of dangerous waters where death lurked behind every mast and wake did not arouse cheers.
Dionysius looked at them. “One month,” he pleaded. “Only one month, I ask for, no more. Then I shall summon the finest east wind in the name of the gods and we will sail directly west across the whole width of the sea to Massilia.”
A few of the men observed mildly that a fair amount of booty had come their way already at Lade. The voyage to Massilia through strange waters was fearfully long, and sometimes not even an entire season sufficed for it. So if their intention was to reach Massilia, it would be best to turn the prows in that direction immediately and pray for favorable winds. But the wisest course, they said, would be to seek refuge in the Greek cities of Sicily or Italy, in that great West whose reputation for wealth and extravagant living had spread throughout the world.
Dionysius listened, furrowed his brow, and then asked with assumed meekness if someone else had advice to give him.
“Say what you have to say, then we shall know where each of us stands. Everyone has the right to speak and vote and express his opinion, so speak freely. First let us see who wish to go directly to Sicily or Italy, where the Greek cities jealously guard their respective territories and the lands have been partitioned for centuries.”
A number of the men consulted hastily among themselves and declared that a partridge in the hand was better than ten on a branch. Therefore they humbly requested their share of the booty and one of the vessels with which to sail to Sicily.
“It is manly and right that you have spoken so freely,” said Dionysius. “You may have your share of the loot and a generous share, but I cannot let you have a vessel. The ships are my own and all your loot would not suffice to buy one. Still, it is best for us to go our separate ways as soon as possible, so take your share and start swimming towards Sicily with the golden chains around your necks. If you hesitate I will gladly help you over the railing with the tip of my sword. The water is warm and you can determine the direction by the stars.”
He took a few threatening steps and the other men laughingly began jostling the unfortunates towards the side, pretending to toss them overboard. Bitterly regretting their thoughtless words, the group pleaded loudly to be permitted to accompany Dionysius.
He shook his head and sighed. “What changeable creatures you are! One moment you want this, another moment that. But let us again be the same big family in which everyone has the right to express his thoughts freely and to vote as he wishes. Let each of us who wishes to follow me first to Phoenician waters and then to Massilia raise his hand.”
All the men, including Dorieus and me, raised their hands. Only Mikon, smiling silently, did not.
Dionysius moved among the men, patting their shoulders and calling them gallant. But in front of Mikon he paused, his face darkening. “What of you, physician? Do you i
ntend to return home on the back of a dolphin?”
Mikon met his eyes unflinchingly. “I will follow you willingly, Dionysius, and will continue to do so for as long a time as is intended. But where we will go after leaving the Phoenician waters is completely up to fate. For that reason I do not defy the immortals by raising my hand.”
His manner was so docile that Dionysius could not even reproach him.
Turning back to his men, Dionysius shouted, “Tomorrow morning let us have a brisk west wind. For that I have already sacrificed to the Phoenician god on our ‘prow and bathed his face, hands and feet with human blood according to the wishes of Phoenician deities. But to Poseidon and the gods of the sea I shall now offer this golden chain worth several houses and vineyards to prove to you how thoroughly I believe in my good luck. I sacrifice it gladly, knowing that in the near future I shall receive another even more valuable.”
With those words he strode to the prow and threw his chain into the sea. The men groaned upon hearing the splash but, convinced of Dionysius’ belief in his luck, they praised him and began scratching the deck to confirm the sacrifice and conjure up the wind.
Dionysius sent the men to sleep, promising to take the watch himself until daybreak. Again the men praised him, and soon the only sound over the sigh of the sea and the creak of the vessels was a heavy snoring.
I could not sleep for thinking of the unknown future. The sheep’s bones had indicated the west, and whatever other methods of divination Dorieus and I had tried, they likewise had pointed westward. Stubbornly we had set forth for the east, but winged fate would soon take us to the westernmost shore of the sea.
My throat grew dry at the realization that I had lost lonia for all time, and I groped my way through the sleeping men to the water container. Then I climbed to the deck, looked at the silver of the sky and the darkening sea, listened to the slap of the waves and felt the slow rocking of the vessel beneath me.
I was aroused from my thoughts by a faint clanking against the side of the ship. Barefooted and silently I reached Dionysius just as he was pulling something up from the sea hand over hand.
“Are you fishing?” I asked.
Dionysius jumped so that he almost lost his balance. “Oh, it’s only you, Turms,” he said, trying to hide the object behind his back. But his effort was futile, for even in the darkness I recognized the golden chain that he had so ostentatiously thrown into the sea.
He was not at all abashed but laughed and said, “As a literate man you are undoubtedly unprejudiced about offerings and such. My offering to Poseidon was so to speak only allegorical, just as the Ionian sages call their fables of the gods allegories and interpret them in many ways. As a frugal man I naturally tied some string to my chain and fastened the other end firmly to the ship’s prow before throwing the treasure overboard.”
“But what about the west wind that you promised?” I asked.
“I sensed it already in the evening from the color of the sea and the sighs of the darkness,” confessed Dionysius calmly. “Mark my words, even without the chain we will have a brisk west wind. You will see that the sun rises behind a cloud and that with the wind we will have a drenching rain.”
His artlessness frightened me, for even the greatest scoffer retains in some corner of his heart a certain respect toward offerings.
“Don’t you really believe in the deities?” I asked.
“I believe what I believe,” he answered evasively, “but one thing I do know is that even if I had thrown a hundred chains into the sea we would not have had a west wind unless the sea had previously indicated its coming.”
6.
As Dionysius had predicted, the early morning brought a wet squall that pushed us eastward with creaking masts. So violent was the churning of the sea that Dorieus, still suffering from the blow on his head, vomited time and again. Many of Dionysius’ men likewise lay on the deck, clinging to the railing and unable to eat.
The west wind drove westbound merchant ships to shelter, leaving the deserted sea to Dionysius. His luck accompanied him, for when we had reached the straits between Rhodes and the mainland the wind died down. Dawn brought with it a land wind and a veritable fleet of vessels loaded to the gunwales with grain and oil for the Persian navy near Miletus. Their crews greeted us gaily, misled by the Phoenician ship and the Persian emblems which Dionysius displayed.
Presumably Dionysius had little interest in such cargo and merely sought to prove to himself and to his men that he was still waging the Ionian war. We seized the largest of the ships before its crew realized what was happening. When Dionysius learned that the vessels were Greek ships in the service of the Persians he immediately ordered both our penteconters to scuttle them. We had no need of grain or oil, nor could we have transported them.
With oars and sails we headed for Cyprus and on the way surprised a large and richly laden merchant vessel which also carried passengers. As we surrounded it and clambered up its steep sides its crew vainly attempted to ward off our attack. The passengers, recovered from their initial shock, appeared with upraised hands and in various languages promised large ransoms for themselves, their wives and their daughters. But Dionysius as a cautious man had no desire to spare anyone who might identify him or his men in the future. So he felled the male passengers himself with swift blows of his axe and left the women to his men while the ship was being plundered.
“Make haste, my clansmen,” he said. “Although I cannot deny you the joys which only a woman can give, remember that I will kill with my own hands anyone who attempts to conceal a woman on one of our vessels. It would create only bickering and confusion.”
The men pulled at their beards and stared with burning eyes at the weeping women.
Dionysius laughed and added, “Remember also, my gallant warriors, that every joy has its price. Whoever utilizes the short time at our disposal in gratifying childish passions instead of in sensibly collecting loot will lose his share of it.”
So great was the Phocaeans’ greed that only a few chose the women. The rest of us scattered over the vessel, where we found gold and silver in the form of both coins and objects, beautiful pieces of sculpture, women’s jewelry and colored fabrics, even two rolls of purple cloth. We also took care of the spice supply and the wines, as well as the passengers’ possessions.
The easiest way to dispose of the vessel would have been to burn it, since we were incapable of puncturing its heavy, cedar sides. But Dionysius did not wish to betray us through smoke or fire. Instead, we chopped holes in the ship’s bottom and as the vessel began to sink Dionysius roused those of his men who had chosen women instead of loot and then had the throats of the women slit, thus giving them an easy death in compensation for the dishonor they had suffered.
Only Dorieus had not participated in the plundering and raping but had returned to our vessel immediately following the capture. Mikon, who had not taken part in the fighting, had inspected the ship and found an ivory-trimmed medicine case together with physician’s instruments.
When Dionysius censured him for his laziness, Dorieus stated that he fought only armed men, the more skilled the better. But the killing and plundering of unarmed men was beneath his dignity. This explanation satisfied Dionysius, who promised him his share of the loot even though he had not contributed to it.
Having related this much, I have really described our entire voyage, for everything happened in the same manner. The only difference lay in the size and number of the vessels, the time of day, the stiffness of the resistance, the amount of loot, and other matters of secondary importance. We rounded Cyprus on the sea side and sank several ships from Curium and Amathus after having lured them closer with our Persian shields and emblems. But we could not prevent the escape of several fishing boats which had witnessed the attacks. In great urgency Dionysius stamped the deck and cried for a favorable wind to carry us straight toward the Phoenician coast. No one would suspect our appearance on the busiest shipping routes, for pirates had no
t dared venture into these safest waters of the civilized world for generations.
But the gentle breeze continued to blow toward Cyprus, just as the breeze always blows toward land in the daytime and in the morning from land to sea, unless storms or capricious gales prevail. This has been made possible by the fishermen’s sea gods so that the men may sail out before dawn and return with the day winds.
The wind was not our only obstacle, for a strong current, of which the men from Salamis had warned us, made our oars powerless to carry us in the direction set by Dionysius.
As Dionysius stood on the deck, stamping his feet, rattling shields, and calling for a favorable wind, Mikon came to me.
“Why don’t you summon the wind, Turms?” he suggested. “Do it if only in jest.” He was smiling and there was a familiar wrinkle between his brows.
I cannot explain why I did so, but I raised my arms and summoned the wind thrice, then seven times and finally twelve times in an increasingly loud voice, until my own shouts intoxicated me and I was no longer aware of what happened around me.
When I came to my senses Mikon was holding my head on his arm and pouring wine down my throat, Dorieus was staring at me strangely, and Dionysius looked frightened, as though he didn’t believe what he saw. The sky which shortly before had been cloudless had changed color, and from the west a blue-black mass of clouds was approaching with the speed of a thousand charging black horses. As Dionysius shouted for the sails we heard the thunder of hoofbeats, the sea darkened and frothed, and lightning blazed above us. Then we plunged forward with snapping sails through blinding hail and foam, unable to do anything but follow the wind to avoid being swamped by the house-high waves.
As the lightning flashed and the ship groaned we lay on deck clinging to whatever we could. Then, as the wine which Mikon had given me rose to my head, I stumbled to my feet and, clutching the mast rope, tried to dance on the rolling deck as I had once danced on the road to Delphi. The dance penetrated my limbs and from my throat burst words which I did not understand. Only when the storm began to die down did I drop in exhaustion onto the deck.
