I KNOW NOTHING OF THE ART OF WAR, but my uneducated eye convinced me of my master’s conviction that quantity must defeat quality. I found myself traveling in the midst of a huge army, probably the largest ever assembled, while a navy of over a thousand ships sailed parallel to our land route. By placing his faith in intimidating numbers, my master forgot the lesson his father learned at Marathon: the swift little bee can defeat the ponderous lion.
Though I have often prayed to forget that long, arduous journey, my memory has not dulled over time. Most of the king’s troops traveled on foot along the Royal Road that stretched from Susa to Sardis while the king and his generals rode in magnificent carriages. The procession was so gigantic that a family seeing us approach on the first day of the week would not see the end of our convoy until sunset of the seventh day. Our men, cattle, and horses drained so many wells and small creeks along the route that those unfortunate enough to live on the king’s highway had to find alternate sources of water.
I worried about the thirsty slaves traveling at the rear of our company, but my master seemed not to care about anything but forward progress.
I had never seen the man so possessed. His eyes held a light that burned like a flame. He slept restlessly, even after enjoying the company of a concubine, and frequently woke before sunrise, eager to break camp and move ahead.
Once we reached Sardis, only the Aegean Sea stood between us and Greece. But too many miles of water separated us, so we turned north, toward the Black Sea, where only a narrow strait blocked our passage.
My master called a halt when we reached the Hellespont, a channel so narrow we could see the opposite shore. The king consulted with his engineers, who theorized that it would be possible to build a bridge using the ships of the royal navy. The king then ordered hundreds of ships into the channel, and the engineers tied them together with ropes. My master believed he had solved the problem, but the gods who rule the wind and waves were not on our side. Before even a single soldier could cross, a sudden storm destroyed the bridge, snapping the ropes as if they were threads.
I have never seen the king so enraged, his eyes so black and dazzling with fury. As I stood trembling at his side, terrified that his anger would turn toward those closest to him, my master ordered that the waters of the sea be whipped and branded with red-hot irons. His troops hesitated only a moment, then leapt to obey, flinging iron fetters onto the roiling waters and stabbing the surface with hot irons. The sea responded with steam and hissing, as if it understood that it was being punished.
“Oh, vile waterway!” the men chanted as they disciplined the treacherous waters. “Xerxes lays on you this punishment because you have offended him, though he has done you no wrong! The great king will cross you even without your permission, for you are a treacherous and foul river!”
I watched, aghast, for I had never seen any Persian treat a river with such disdain. Persians revered their rivers, for flowing water is a source of life, and in all my travels with the king’s household I had never seen a servant so much as wash his hands in a river lest he befoul it. Yet before my disbelieving eyes, Persian warriors and befuddled mercenaries up and down the shoreline expended their frustration on the waterway.
Why didn’t they strike at the wind, which had been just as traitorous as the river?
At that moment, in a flash that was barely comprehendible, I realized that my master was not well. Though his muscles gleamed beneath his tunic, though he rarely coughed and never fainted, though he walked with an air of authority and commanded instant obedience, no man punished the river unless he was confused or tormented by an evil spirit. His men knew this too, and though they obeyed him, their wild grins and exaggerated gestures only served to emphasize the absurdity of his command.
Apparently the scourging of the sea did not satisfy the king’s need to vent his frustration. He summoned the engineers who created the floating bridge; when they stood before him, shamefaced and cringing, he ordered their execution. The hapless builders, most of them weeping like women, were impaled on stakes outside the camp.
I watched, my flesh crawling beneath my white slave’s tunic, as my master called for a second corps of engineers. When no one volunteered, he called for the assistants of the men he had executed and placed them in charge of building a second bridge. More than one tanned face went pale at the assignment, but oil lamps burned in their tents throughout the night.
The next morning the assistants offered a second plan: they would build two bridges, one for the soldiers and another, farther downstream, for the livestock. They would use thicker ropes to lash the ships together. And as an extra precaution, they would build large windlasses on shore, a winch at each end of the floating bridge to keep the ropes taut.
Knowing their lives were at stake, the engineers labored for weeks, carefully positioning the boats, lashing the vessels together, and securing the ropes with the windlasses. When the bridge finally floated in its place, the engineers strengthened the structure by placing embankments of timber, stone, and packed earth across the ships’ decks. I could barely believe my eyes when a veritable road rose from the sea.
And then we crossed.
My master’s army marched through Greece, intent upon reaching Athens, the city that had dispatched its men to Marathon to defeat Darius. Fortunately, we did not encounter hostility along the way. Every city we encountered en route submitted, offering my king food and hospitality, content to let him pass through the land until he reached his destination. Every night we feasted on the best Grecian culture had to offer, and every morning our troops gathered up items of value and we moved on.
I felt a little guilty about stripping the populace as we traversed the land, but the practical aspect of my nature reminded me that we had left the people alive and unharmed. If they had resisted, their cities would be corpse-filled ruins, and their children would be marching away with nooses around their necks and fetters on their wrists. . . .
The thought nudged a memory from the dark recesses of my mind. I had once marched along an unending road with my hands tied. My wrists still bore scars where the rope had chafed the skin away, and my neck would never be smooth and unmarked.
But an orphan slave had few prospects, and I had been more fortunate than most.