Elephants and Castles

by Alfred Duggan

  ‘You silly man. If the sculptor is any good he won’t take orders from King Antigonus, let alone from a flute-player. That kind of thing can’t be made to order. You talk like that because you were reared in Asia, not in Hellas. I also was brought up in the Empire, that’s why I want to get away. Soldiers dripping with money while scholars and philosophers fawn on them - everything taller and broader than anything of the kind that has been done before - all made by masses of barbarian labourers who really want to be making something else - no one carrying out his own idea that he has thought out by himself - everyone trying to please some bloated King who can’t be pleased because he has no ideas of his own. That’s the Empire - a second-rate world run by second-rate men who would never reach the top among the true Hellenes. A world that copies the designs of Hellas without understanding what it wants to copy, a world where wealthy patrons believe that a column sixty feet high must be three times as good as one twenty feet high. I’m sick of the Empire. I must see Hellas.’

  She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Well, I suppose you will sleep with me, and then give me a little bit of what I ask. That’s how I get along, and at that I am luckier than most women. In the morning, or after a few days, put me on one of your store ships going back empty to Athens. I’ll be grateful for the rest of my life.’

  ‘Oh no, my dear. You will be with me much longer than that. After this campaign we shall go back to Athens together. Even though you don’t take my divinity seriously the Athenians do, and that has its advantages. When we get there we’ll make things hum. In the meantime we shall certainly pass the night together in this tent. Perhaps you will enjoy it; at least you won’t be bored. But the evening is young, let’s go on talking. What shall we talk about? I know. I must set up a trophy to mark my great victory over the might of Egypt. Something more permanent than the usual heap of weapons and armour. Can you advise me on that?’

  ‘There’s reason for the usual heap of weapons and armour, my lord god.’ She spoke seriously, as one man might talk to another. ‘A trophy ought to decay and disappear after a few years, in token that Hellenes will not be for ever at enmity with other Hellenes.’

  ‘Yes, but this isn’t a trophy over a city of the Hellenes. It will be just a memorial that once a soldier called Demetrius beat a soldier called Ptolemy. Neither of us have a fatherland, unless it’s Macedonia. In a few years Ptolemy will be dead, and after a few more I shall follow him. I should like to be remembered by posterity, and a trophy at Salamis can’t arouse eternal enmity between Athenians and Alexandrians.’

  ‘Very well then, a marble statue. That’s the nearest thing to eternity that a man can make, unless you propose to build a pyramid. A statue of yourself? A little vulgar, don’t you think? Others may put up statues in your honour, you can’t very well commission one yourself.’

  ‘No, not a statue of me. It would have to show me trampling on Plotemy, and that’s just the kind of thing we don’t want. It might keep the grudge alive for ever - I’ve got it. A figure of Victory, the goddess Nike. It’s enough to remind posterity that a victory was gained here, and if I am still remembered they will know I won it. But so long as my name doesn’t appear on the monument no one can accuse me of ostentation.’

  ‘Nike the goddess - now what does she look like?’ mused Lamia with a frown. ‘Of course - you can tell me. You have seen her often enough.’

  ‘She has wings, my dear, because she comes unexpectedly and never stays long with one army. If you don’t persuade her to alight while she hovers she is off in a flash,’ Demetrius was enjoying himself. ‘I don’t think she carries a sword, at least not the Nike who comes to me. I spare the lives of the defeated if they will let me. But she ought to carry something - I’ve got it, a wreath of laurel. There’s your statue. A fluttering figure, just alighting on the prow of a ship; she’s still undecided whether she will stay. You will be the model for her, and you may choose any sculptor you wish,’

  ‘No, I’m not the Nike type. I am melting, yielding Aphrodite, who trembles amid the clash of spears. That’s what Homer says, doesn’t he? You must find another model. Nike is a tall, swift-moving lady, not a pretty girl. Tall and very slight, ready to vanish in a moment. Though she smiles her face is grave, for she comes on a serious errand. I can see her in my mind’s eye, but I can’t think of a suitable model. Certainly there isn’t one among my colleagues of Ptolemy’s household.’

  ‘I know the perfect model - the lady Phila, my Queen. She’s a lady, a noble lady of Macedonia, who would herself snatch up a sword if she thought it necessary. She’s tall and slender, and she moved like a Queen even before she was one. I’ll ask her to be my Victory. She will do it to please me. You will like her when you meet her.’

  ‘The introduction may be a little awkward. I’m not even a hetaira, you know, just a flute-player and concubine. You had better keep us apart - that is if I stay with you.’

  ‘You stay with me, though it means that you won’t see Hellas until next year. In a few days we sail for Egypt, to finish off old Pharaoh. But then I must march against Cassander, while my family wait for me in Asia. I can’t take Phila to watch me fight her brother, you know. You will come with me on campaign. And even if you were one of Pharaoh’s dancing girls you will be my hetaira. In Athens you will be all the rage. By the way, did you ever talk like this to Ptolemy, and what did he think of it?’

  ‘I tried to talk to him on serious subjects, sometimes when I thought he might be in the mood for it. But he never listened. He used to grin and suggest it was time for a tune on the double flutes. They are fastened in the mouth, you know, by a strap which goes over the head; when the double flutes are strapped on you can’t talk even though you are not playing. I’m glad you conquered him.’

  Ptolemy’s dancing girls were returned to him, in the ship that had brought them to Cyprus. Demetrius installed Lamia on his flagship, though now she wore the dignified long gown of an almost respectable hetaira.

  The victorious army and fleet remained where they were, awaiting orders from Antigonus. These arrived after some delay, a delay explained in the private letter enclosed with them.

  ‘Your pompous friend Aristodemus is out of a job,’ Antigonus wrote to his son. ‘I suppose you chose him to announce your victory because you wanted to be rid of him. I don’t blame you. He came here as slowly as he could, just to make himself more important. His ship anchored in the harbour, and he was rowed ashore in a small boat. Then he walked very slowly from the quay to the palace. All this time he would say nothing, and no one knew whether he bore news of victory or disaster. I was on tenterhooks. At last I came out from the palace to meet him, unable to wait any longer. That of course was what the rogue was after. For the rest of his life he may boast that King Antigonus comes to meet him as though welcoming a superior. But he won’t visit me again. I have sent him home to Miletus.

  ‘You want to sail straight for Alexandria, to finish off old Pharaoh,’ the letter continued. ‘A gallant and audacious plan, worthy of my son. But you will need more troops than you can carry in your ships. Instead, you will join me in Syria, at the mouth of the Orontes. With the mercenaries who joined you in Cyprus we shall have the largest army the world has seen; or at least the largest army of Hellenes, for I don’t count the myriads of barbarians who used to follow the Persian King. I shall march on Egypt through Sinai, while your ships keep pace with me. Nothing can stand against us.

  “All my councillors dislike this plan, because of the lateness of the season. But Egypt is never too cold for campaigning. At sea there may be storms, but I rely on the skill of your Athenian sailors. We shall bring it off, all the more easily because Ptolemy will not expect us before the spring. But by then we shall be at grips with Cassander, secure on our southern frontier.

  ‘A campaign in midwinter is risky. It is a risk I must face. I am racing against death. I am beginning to feel my age, and lately I have grown very fat. Since no horse can carry me I must ride in a litter. I have only two or
three years, at most, in which to restore the great Empire of Alexander. Eighteen years have passed since it fell apart, and I have so nearly put it back again. If you are to see your old father reigning in Babylon you must not lose a moment. Hurry to the coast of Syria. Good-bye.’

  7. THE BESIEGER OF CITIES

  Father and son sat in council in a little room of the unfinished palace at Antigoneia. Antigonus sprawled in his special chair, for he was much bigger than a normal man. He had always been immensely tall, but now he was immensely fat as well. He panted for breath. But his one eye twinkled from a purple cheek, and his brain was as keen as ever.

  Demetrius, near his thirty-first birthday, still looked a youth, though there were lines of vexation beside his mouth. He fidgeted restlessly, just not kicking out at the furniture.

  ‘Poseidon beat me, not Ptolemy,’ he said crossly. ‘You can’t build a ship that is any good for fighting and also safe in bad weather. The rowlocks must be near the water-line, and that means no freeboard. Even Athenian sailors can’t cope with the winter squalls you meet off Sinai. What beat the army I don’t know. Some other god, I suppose. Certainly old Pharaoh couldn’t do it.’

  ‘The Nile beat the army,’ said his father with a sigh. ‘I believe the Egyptians worship their river, so we can say that each of us was beaten by another god. If we hadn’t been held up by the river we wouldn’t have run short of food; we wouldn’t have been forced to fall back into the desert, where the men were thirsty as well as hungry. All the same, Ptolemy played his part. His fighting days may be over, but he can still use his treasury. Buying over my mercenaries at the outposts! Lucky I was warned in time. We might have been betrayed if I hadn’t pulled back when I did.’

  Father and son fell silent, pondering on the injustice of Fate. Presently Antigonus pulled himself up in his wide chair.

  ‘No,’ he said firmly, ‘no god intervened to defeat us. I was beaten because I was in too much of a hurry. It’s entirely my fault, and I must take the blame. I should have waited for spring. It we were starting now we would find the harvest ready for us, instead of foraging over bare stubble; and your ships would meet calm weather. My fault. You are as blameless as the heavenly powers.’

  He heaved himself upright, though he braced himself with one hand against the wall. ‘Well, I have admitted it. That’s over. We were driven back, but not disgraced. The war goes on, and in a month the true campaigning season opens. What shall we do next to restore the Empire of Alexander?’

  ‘Go for Ptolemy again, I suppose,’ said his son with a frown.

  ‘We won’t bother about him anymore. Though we can’t chase him from Egypt he still has no fleet. He can’t harm us while we fight in Europe, and if he invades Syria my fortresses will hold him. Once we rule the rest of the world he must sue for mercy. No, Cassander is the only foe who matters. Our programme for this summer must be the conquest of Macedonia. You’ll like being back in Hellas, won’t you? I know your Lamia will enjoy it.’

  That was the wrong thing to say. Demetrius was sensitive on the subject, fearing lest it be said that he fought to please a woman.

  ‘Last summer the Hellenes coped with Cassander. They can keep him in check for another year. Ptolemy is no danger. But he’s a tiresome distraction, always bobbing up when you are busy with something more important. I want to finish him off for good and all. I won’t try another invasion of Egypt. It’s been tried too often, and it always fails. But we must make quite sure that Ptolemy doesn’t build another fleet. He has the money for it, and the skilled carpenters. All he lacks is timber. I’m inclined to suspect that he is already buying timber, very quietly, through the merchants of Rhodes. We must put a stop to that before we turn to Europe.’

  ‘It’s a bit hard on the Rhodians, forbidding them to trade with their best customer. I’ve always found them very civil people, and honest merchants. They had been friendly too, even though they won’t join our Island League. They set up statues of the Saviour Gods in their market-place, though they don’t actually worship us. Their navy keeps down piracy, which saves us trouble. The city lives by trade, and largely by trade with Egypt.’

  ‘It’s damned impertinent of them to put down pirates, when I am lord of all the seas. It’s a reflection on my competence. Besides, Ptolemy is the ally of Cassander, the deadly foe of freedom. No decent Hellene ought to trade with him. I shall stop that trade, by force if necessary.’

  ‘Then free Hellenes are not free to trade where they will? Oh, I know what you mean, don’t bother to explain. Just remember not to talk too much about liberty when you are planning to suppress a free city. Are these Rhodians really a menace to your command of the sea?’

  ‘Not a menace as yet, though they might easily become one. Say rather that they set a bad example to our reluctant allies. If Cos and Mytilene must fight Cassander, why should Rhodes be allowed to stand neutral? We must take action against them, for the sake of our prestige,’

  ‘Ah, prestige is an important factor in this kind of war. We must seem omnipotent, or some of our allies will fall away. How would this do? When your forces are ready to move send another embassy to the Rhodians. Tell them to close their ports to Egyptian ships - or else. Probably they will send back a soothing answer, and you will have demonstrated your might. If they defy you, sail to Rhodes and give them a good fright. With them it’s not a matter of principle. They will sacrifice some trade to avert a war. But remember, this year is allotted to the destruction of Cassander. Whatever happens in Rhodes, be in Thessaly by mid-summer. I haven’t much longer, unless the sovereign people of Athens have made me immortal. Before you bury me Cassander must be squashed, or my ghost will come back to haunt you,’

  ‘Very well, Father. That’s agreed. A demonstration against Rhodes as soon as we leave winter quarters, but the real business of the year is to destroy Cassander. I shan’t forget. Before you reach the Bosphorus I shall be in Thessaly. By the way, I shall send an envoy to the pirates, if I can do it quietly. They ought to be willing to help me against Rhodes, and by giving them regular pay I wean them from piracy, which is just as good-as putting them down by force. Besides, I shall need light scouts to deal with the Rhodian cruisers. Even the biggest fleet never has enough fast scouting-ships,’

  ‘Use pirates if you must, but don’t tell me any more about it. I suppose the Liberators of Hellas may use any allies to hand. It will look odd, though. In Alexandria they will have a lot of fun with you,’

  On Midsummer Day Demetrius thought back with regret to this conversation. But in wartime a commander cannot always keep his appointments. It was a pity that the insolence of the Rhodians had driven him to lay siege to their city; even more of a pity that their spirited defence had already delayed him for two vital months. The Athenians, worried by the increasing strength of Cassander, were anxiously pleading that their Saviour God should bring his army to the mainland.

  But though the siege was going more slowly than he had expected, it was going well. What fun it was to match wits with a brave and humane enemy! From his camp on the hill top, overlooking harbour and city, he planned his next move.

  He had all the force he needed: 40,000 soldiers, 30,000 pioneers for trench-digging, a fleet of 200 warships and 170 transports in addition to a squadron of speedy pirates. He still had plenty of money and plenty of provisions, though the supply would not last for ever. Opposed to him was a single city, the few thousand spears of its civic militia and its few score warships

  Yet the Rhodians held him. They were a remarkable people, up to date and inventive, as much a part of Alexander’s new world as any of the overseas kingdoms. Not only did they hold him, they held him easily, without getting angry.

  When he landed on the island two months ago the Rhodians had sent an embassy; not, as he had hoped, to beg for terms, but to lay down the conditions on which they would conduct the war. The statues of the Saviour Gods would remain undamaged in their market-place; in return they hoped the besiegers would respect works of ar
t in the suburbs, of which a list was produced. Both sides would probably take prisoners; why not hand them over, man for man, at short intervals? If one side was left with a surplus let them be ransomed at a fixed price per head, a price agreed in advance. The bodies of the slain would be returned for burial by their comrades; or if that was impossible let some of their comrades be shown the tombs provided by their enemies. Of course there would be no poisoning of arrows or of springs, no torture of prisoners to extract information. In conclusion, the Rhodians were proud to have attracted the attention of the greatest soldier in Hellas, and hoped to provide an honourable field for his talents.

  This was fairly disturbing, as evidence that the Rhodians expected a long campaign. It was much more disturbing to learn that they had armed their slaves. How could citizens bring themselves to destroy their own property? It was the kind of question Aristodemus might explain; but he recalled that the sage had been banished into private life. Instead he consulted Lamia; he had to consult someone.

  She was less surprised at the news. ‘More slaves than you might suppose are content with their lot. I have never been a slave myself, a slave in law, that is. But I was not always in command of my movements. For example, I might not leave Ptolemy’s household, and if he had given me to a friend I would have had to go where I was sent. I have lived with slaves around me, and I know something of what they feel.

  ‘A slave who has been treated well reveres his master,’ she went on. ‘The master is the bread-giver, almost in the place of a father. A slave born in Rhodes will be as proud of his fine city as any other Rhodian. I think most slaves could be trusted to fight for their homes; if they are slave-born, of course, and not barbarians taken in war. Afterwards they will never be slaves again, or at least not slaves in the same way. Probably they will go on working for their masters, in return for their keep and a little pocket-money. This news tells us two things about the Rhodians: that they will make sacrifices to preserve their liberty, and that they are humane to their dependants. But we know that already. It also shows that they are short of soldiers, which is perhaps more consoling.’