by Mika Waltari
7.
Until late that night we sailed along the blue shoreline of Cyprus, striving in vain to reach the open sea. A stiff breeze forced us relentlessly northeastward and not all the shifting of sails took us from the direction in which an apparently relentless will was driving us. When darkness fell Dionysius had the sails half furled and the vessels roped together so that we would not drift apart during the night. While most of the crew slept he and several others remained on watch for possible breakers.
But nothing happened and we awakened at daybreak to the astonished shouts of the lookouts. When we reached the deck we saw that the sea had grown calm and that we were floating off the easternmost tip of Cyprus. The sun rose from the sea all red and gold, and on its mountain at the end of the promontory we saw the temple of Aphrodite of Akraia with its terraces and columns. It was so near that in the dazzling light of dawn we could distinguish every detail and hear the crowing of Aphrodite’s famous black cocks over the water.
The men of Salamis cried out that this was a sign and an omen. The powerful Aphrodite of Akraia, the Aphrodite of seafarers and the mightiest Aphrodite of the eastern sea, had sent a storm to lead us to her. Moreover, she was a native Cypriote, having stepped ashore there from her seashell with only her golden hair veiling her foam-white body. For all those reasons, said the men of Sardis, it was necessary that we go ashore and make a sacrifice lest we incur Aphrodite’s wrath.
But Dionysius roared at the men to take to their oars since only a miracle had kept us from drifting onto the reefs between the small islands while we had stared at the temple. The men of Salamis protested that the miracle was Aphrodite’s and that they would not take the responsibility of leaving without having made an offering.
“I gladly recognize the might of the golden-haired goddess,” said Dionysius, “and promise to make a sacrifice at the first opportune moment. But you can see for yourselves that there are many large ships in the harbor. I would rather suffer Aphrodite’s wrath than that of the god of war.”
He ordered the beat of the gongs quickened to battle speed. “I’ll sweat out of you the last desire to sacrifice to Aphrodite.”
But despite the best efforts of the rowers, the helmsmen noticed that our speed was not what it should have been and the men themselves muttered that never before had the oars felt so heavy.
Finally, when the shadow of the temple had dropped beyond the horizon, our speed increased. The cloudless sky smiled at us, the sea breathed lightly, and everything around us seemed radiant.
Dionysius shouted triumphantly, “You see, the Cypriote has no power on the sea!”
The rowers began to sing loudly in relief, some with good voices, others cawing like ravens or screaming like gulls. The more loudly they sang the harder they pulled at the oars as though it were no longer an effort but a joy. The water frothed at the prows, the wakes bubbled, and the oars whipped up the sea at our sides.
At midday the lookouts cried out with one voice that they saw a mast and a colored sail. The vessel came directly toward us and soon we all saw the carved and painted rails, the glow of the ivory and silver deity at its prow, and the glint of the sun on the oars. It was a narrow, fast ship and lovely as a dream.
When it was sufficiently near it raised its pennants and showed its shields. The men of Salamis said, “It is one of Tyre’s ships. Surely you don’t intend to anger the sea goddess, Dionysius?”
But Dionysius unhesitatingly showed a Persian shield, signaled the strange ship to stop, and ordered our marines to board it. When we climbed over its side no one offered resistance, although the Phoe nicians shouted in guttural voices and raised protesting hands. Among them were priests with bead-trimmed headbands, silver rattles, and bells around their necks.
“Why are they screaming?” demanded Dionysius, lowering his axe.
The men of Salamis tremblingly explained, “This is a sacred ship. It is carrying incense and votive offerings to the temple of Aphrodite at Akraia.”
Dionysius glowered and scratched his head in perplexity, then inspected the ship. Its cargo was undeniably valuable, although useless for our purposes. When he sought to enter the deckhouse the priests clutched the curtain before the entrance. Dionysius tore it down, went inside, and hastily returned with a red face.
“There’s nothing in there except four daughters of Astarte.”
The men of Salamis talked to the priests and learned that the four girls were the gift of Astarte of Tyre to her sister, Aphrodite of Akraia, and symbolized the four corners of the world ruled by Tyre as queen of the sea.
“This is an omen!” cried the men, and insisted upon seeing the girls.
For a moment Dionysius was tempted to plunder and sink the ship, then the sight of the smiling sun, the shimmering sky and the dark blue eyes of the sea made him laugh. He ordered the girls brought forth.
They stepped out of the shelter fearlessly and gracefully, wearing only their hair ornaments, necklaces and the goddess’s belt. One of them was white as snow, the second yellow as mustard, the third copper-colored, and the fourth black as pitch. We shouted in amazement, for none of us had ever seen a yellow-skinned person.
Dionysius said, “I don’t deny that this is a sign and an omen. The goddess realized that we could not stop to make our offering, therefore she sent us this ship. It is ours, and as evidence of it I am burying this axe in the deck and dedicating the vessel to the goddess of Akraia.”
The men were content with the decision and declared that they had no intention of warring against gods and consecrated girls. In all friendliness they took the priests’ ornaments and bells as mementos, but no one touched the girls.
When they saw that we were about to leave the ship the girls began talking together in great agitation and pointing to us. The Negro girl seized Dionysius’ beard, while the snow-white one ran her fingertips temptingly across the corners of my mouth.
Dionysius frowned. “What do they want?”
The priests of Tyre explained reluctantly that the girls wanted us to sacrifice to Aphrodite. Since all could not do it, the girls wished to choose those from whom they would accept the offering.
Dionysius loosened the Negro girl’s fingers from his beard, waged a violent spiritual struggle with himself, and said, “He who has taken one step must also take the next. We would have to stop at any rate to eat hot food while the sea is calm. But I don’t want to take advantage of my position. Let us draw lots and in that manner choose the four men to represent us.”
The goddess smiled impartially, for a winning pebble-one red, one black and one yellow-was drawn by each vessel. But incredible as it was, I myself drew the white pebble from the barrel. I stared at it in alarm, remembering the touch of the slender fingers on my face. Quickly I passed the pebble to Mikon.
He looked down into his palm. “I thought the moon ruled you. Only now do I understand why the storm which you conjured” up led us to the temple at Akraia.”
I bid him stop chattering and hold up the pebble in his hand for all to see. Then the rowers washed and scrubbed and anointed those who had drawn the winning pebbles and ornamented them with chains and rings selected from the loot.
While the rest of us filed by the pots for our meal, the four fortunates, Mikon in the lead because of his position, stepped into the deckhouse. The priests replaced the curtain and began to chant hoarsely.
When we had eaten and drunk the wine which Dionysius had served in honor of the occasion, the sun began to drop ominously toward the west. Dionysius became impatient and finally sent for the four men.
Our hands rose involuntarily to our mouths when we saw them stagger forth with the aid of their companions. Their eyes were glazed, their tongues hung out and they could hardly stand. Even Mikon clung to the necks of two oarsmen, and when he attempted to jump aboard our vessel he fell flat on his face.
Dionysius ordered the crews to the oars and turned the prows of our ships northeastward as though our intention was to return to Ionia
n waters by rounding the mainland side of Cyprus. He surmised that the priests of Tyre would immediately inform the Persians of our presence and devised a daring plan. As soon as the sacrificial vessel had disappeared from view we changed to a southeasterly course. A smiling breath of wind began blowing over the sea as though Aphrodite herself were capriciously bestowing her favors on us.
Mikon raised himself shakily to his knees and vomited before he had time to drag himself to the side. Then a rational look came into his eyes once more.
“I have experienced nothing like this in all my forty years,” he said with a weak smile. “I thought that I knew much but actually I knew nothing. Now at last I believe in Aphrodite’s invisible golden net in which even the strongest man is ensnared.” He returned the smooth white pebble that I had given him. “Keep it, Turms. It was not intended for me but for you, you favorite of the goddess.”
I accepted the pebble and kept it, just as I had kept the black pebble which I had found on the earth floor of the temple of Cybele in Sardis. And this white pebble also signified the end of an era in my life although I did not know it at the time.
Mikon spoke a warning. “The gods not only give, they also take away. It is apparent that Artemis is your goddess, but for some reason Aphrodite also has chosen you. This may be unfortunate, since both these powerful goddesses are jealous of each other. You must be careful not to sacrifice too much to either but try to retain the favor of both as they compete for you.”
But all that was forgotten in the exhaustion of laboring at the oars as we sailed in Phoenician waters. The moon grew full and we raged over the sea like Artemis’ wild dogs, murdering, plundering and sinking ships. Signal fires burned all along the Phoenician coast and in a bitter battle we succeeded in sinking two small warships which came upon us unexpectedly. We lost some men and many more were wounded. But invisible shields protected me so that I remained un-scratched.
Many of the men began to complain of seeing the ghosts of our victims in the dark and of feeling the pinch of cold fingers as they were about to sleep. A convoy of vengeful spirits accompanied us, for the sea and the sky around our vessels often darkened without apparent reason.
Dionysius made several sacrifices to placate the spirits, and spat in the sea and scratched the prow with his fingernails to gain a favorable wind. But when the new moon appeared like a thread-thin silver sickle he said suddenly, “I have tested my luck sufficiently and our ships can carry no more cargo. I am not so greedy that I would sacrifice the seaworthiness of my vessels for spoils. Our expedition is now at an end and we have nothing to do but save our lives and our loot. Therefore let us turn our prows westward, and may Poseidon help us across the measureless sea.”
As the Phocaeans shouted for joy Dionysius prayed to the gods of Phoenicia and lonia, smeared blood on the face, hands and feet of the deity and sacrificed several prisoners, letting their blood run into the sea. Sacrifices which would no longer be permitted on land were tolerated at sea and no one protested these barbaric offerings.
Intoxicated by the blood and the loot and our success, the oarsmen joined in calling for the wind. The sailing season was drawing to a close, flocks of birds flew restlessly above the sea, and the water changed its colors. But still the sun scorched us mercilessly, the firmament dazzled our eyes, and the wind did not appear.
Finally the rowers, palms raw from the oars and their throats hoarse, began to shout, “Turms, summon the wind for us! We would rather drown than die at the oars with this heavy cargo of loot.”
With their shouts my head cleared and I saw around us the shadows of the deceased with their vindictive grimaces and hands that clutched our railings as though to prevent our escape.
An ecstasy seized me. I felt myself stronger than the spirits and began summoning the east wind. The others shouted with me, imitating the words whose meaning even I did not understand. Three times, then seven times and finally twelve times I called. Mikon covered his head in fear but made no attempt to restrain me since our lives in any event were at stake with the Phoenician and Egyptian ships at our heels.
Then the sea turned yellow in the east and a blinding storm swirled over us, carrying with it the dust of distant deserts. The last we saw of the open sea behind us was a waterspout rising from the waves to the sky. Then I collapsed onto the deck and Mikon and Dorieus carried me below, where they tied me to one of the ribs to keep me from being battered to death in the pitching ship.
Book Three
Himera
1.
Greater even than Dionysius’ bravery in the battle of Lade, more notable than his raiding expeditions in Phoenician waters, was his skill as a navigator. Despite the autumn gales which sent other ships fleeing to the safety of winter ports, he succeeded in reaching the shores of Sicily in three weeks without landing once, and with the mountains of Crete as his only landmark. This incredible feat deserves full recognition.
So filthy and diseased were we, so bruised and rotted by salt water, that when we finally sighted land and knew it to be real, the men wept with joy and demanded that we put ashore no matter whose territory it was.
Our ships leaked so badly and autumn was so far advanced that not even Dionysius believed that we could continue our voyage over the wide and unknown waters that separated us from Massilia. Calling together his captains and helmsmen he said, “The gigantic smoke-capped mountain that you see tells me that we have arrived at Sicily. If you crave large cities we can continue northward to Croton or south to Syracuse, the largest of the Sicilian cities.”
The helmsmen were delighted. “We are wealthy men now and it would be easiest for us to sell our loot in a large city. We could also have our vessels repaired quickly in some shipyard or even buy new ships with which to continue to Massilia in the spring. But above all we need rest and good food, music, wine and garlands to speed our recovery from these weeks at sea.”
“It’s true that you’ll find such pleasures most readily in a large city,” admitted Dionysius, “but large cities are also fortified cities. They have their walls and their mercenaries and their guarded ports, perhaps even warships. They also receive news from the outside world sooner than small cities.”
He looked sharply at the men. “Our conscience is clear, for we know that we have waged legal warfare against the Persians. But we are too wealthy not to arouse suspicions no matter how we try to explain the source of our loot. And wine has caused many a man to talk his head off. We know our own talkativeness. After all, the immortals chose to make us lonians the glibbest of all peoples.
“No,” he concluded, “we must spend the winter in some secluded city and buy the friendship of its tyrant. Three warships and a trained band like ours are not to be scorned by a minor tyrant trying to preserve his independence. There are such cities on the northern coast whence we could easily set forth for Massilia in the spring. And so I must ask one final effort of you, valiant brothers. Let us sail courageously through the straits which have brought destruction to hundreds of ships, for otherwise we will lose all that we have won.”
The men paled to think of the whirlpools, currents and treacherous winds of those fabled straits, but having protested for a time they grew calmer. When night fell we heard a dull roar and saw a red glow lighting the sky above the smoke-peaked mountain. Ashes began to rain onto the decks and the rowers no longer demanded to go ashore.
Dorieus alone smiled and proclaimed, “The land of my father’s death greets me with thunder and pillars of fire. That sign suffices for me. I know now why the sheep’s bones pointed westward.”
Mikon for his part said, “Dionysius’ luck has brought us thus far. Let him continue to lead us.”
I also felt that the gods hardly would have protected us from the terrors of the sea only to sink our ships ignominiously in the infamous straits. So ended the conference and Dionysius was permitted to carry out his plan. In the silence of the night he sacrificed our Phoenician pilots to the pitiless god of the straits. When, the n
ext morning, I found them gone I was sorry for I had talked to them and for all their foreignness they had shown themselves to be the same kind of people as we were.
The straits were as treacherous as they were said to be and we struggled mightily to pass through them. More dead than alive, and with the crash of the breakers still echoing in our ears, we finally reached the autumnal blue of the Tyrrhenian Sea. Now a favoring wind helped us as we sailed along the mountainous coast within sight of land. Dionysius gave offerings of thanks, poured wine into the sea, and even chopped off the feet of the Phoenician god and threw him overboard with the words, “I no longer need you, god, whoever you may be, for you don’t know these waters.”
But our leaking ships, damaged even more by the straits, moved with difficulty. Each of us yearned for land, for fresh water and fruit, but Dionysius pushed onward, sniffing the breeze, talking to fishermen and purchasing their catch. But as we sailed, the water inside the ship rose ever higher.
By evening the wind began to blow us toward land. We saw the mouth of a river and a city surrounded by a thick wall. Columns of steam arose from the hot springs around it, and beyond it were high mountains.
As the water reached the rowers’ benches the men pulled desperately at the oars. Whether we wished to do so or not, we had to land, for the ship was sinking. Hardly had the oarsmen fled to the deck than we heard a snap and a jolt as the vessel went aground. We were saved, although waves were washing the deck and the ship rolled over on its side with a sigh. Both the penteconters landed safely and, jumping into the water, we pulled them ashore. Only then did we seize our weapons and prepare to defend ourselves, although the land swayed under our feet and we tottered from side to side.
