I mention this circumstance because, on the Acropolis, there is a temple of Erechtheus, in which there is both an olive tree and a representation of the sea. These commemorate the ancient contest between Athene and Poseidon for mastery of Attica. Now, the Persians had burned this olive tree along with the temple. However, just one day after this, the renegade Athenians saw that the tree had miraculously put forth a new shoot about eighteen inches long.
Though not quite the Prodigal Son, I had few reasons to complain about my reception into the Great King’s bosom. I was bathed and shaved and oiled, and arrayed in a clean and reasonably dry robe. I was sitting beside him, a smell of cooking drifting my way as often as one of the tent flaps was open. After a brief intermission, the rain was back and its rapid and continuous beating on the leather roof meant that I had to keep my voice loud as well as steady.
‘There will be no olive shoots after my visit to Athens,’ Chosroes said firmly. ‘Such Mass as I may permit in the converted temple of Athene will be held in Syriac.’ He looked about once more and laughed. ‘But tell me, Alaric, you were in Athens some years ago. Does the sacred olive tree still grow there?’
‘Justinian had it dug out eighty years ago,’ I answered. ‘Since the proscription of the Old Faith, no one had pruned it and it was undermining the foundations of a building he wanted for a monastery.’
‘Did you hear that?’ Chosroes asked the line of trembling boys for whom I’d been translating. ‘Do you see why total extirpation is the only answer to the Greek menace?’ He glowered and sat forward. ‘But which of you will confess to sacrilege against my person?’ he demanded in a voice that suddenly dripped menace. ‘Who has eaten my melon?’ One of the younger boys started to cry — not a good move when Chosroes was in this sort of mood. ‘Silence!’ he barked. He got up and pointed, his finger wavering now right, now left. ‘Start at that end,’ he said eventually. He sat down and reached for his scratching stick. Two of the guards stepped forward and seized the boy farthest on the right from us. They pulled him to the floor and ripped his shirt away. To screams that left me clutching the scroll so hard its papyrus split and crumbled, one of them slit his stomach open. Even as I told myself not to, I watched the boy’s red and steaming entrails pulled out of his body and then at his shocked, uncomprehending eyes.
‘Nothing in this one, Your Majesty,’ the guard said, wiping his hands on a cloth. ‘Shall I carry on with the others?’ No longer screaming, the boy was letting out a shrill, rattling moan. His body flopped about in a dying rhythm.
‘Chosroes turned the corners of his mouth down. ‘In your own time,’ he said. He looked at me. ‘But Alaric, enough of Athens — tell my boys about the futile stand of Leonidas and his Spartans.’ He got up and rummaged in a box. He came back with another large and battered scroll. I took this in hands that I forced not to tremble and unwound it to the relevant passage:
The Persians now attacked once more, and the Spartans, knowing that this would be their end, came out to fight in the wide area of the pass at Thermopylae. Driven on with whips by their officers, the Persians surged forward. Many fell into the sea and were killed. Many fell down on the ground and were trodden to death. Many more were killed by the Spartans, who knew they would soon be attacked from behind and fought on with the most reckless courage. .
‘Get on with it, Alaric!’ The Great King urged. ‘It is a most dramatic narrative. Don’t deprive my boys of what awaits those who defy the majesty of a Persian King.’ Perhaps the most awful scream I’d heard all year had brought me to a sudden stop in the reading. I took my eyes away from a splash of blood over my polished toenails, and forced myself back to seeking Persian equivalents for the Greek words in the column of text before me.
Giggling and talking gibberish to himself, Urvaksha had never stopped from playing with his tangle of knotted strings. Now, he bounced up and down, rattling his golden chain. ‘The knots don’t lie,’ he cackled. ‘The knots never lie.’
I waited for someone to bring a lamp closer to me, and went steadily through the last stand of the Three Hundred — the death of Leonidas, the fourfold repulse of the main Persian army, the culmination of a frantic slaughter that had held up the advance long enough for the Athenians to stop arguing with each other and get their naval counter-attack ready in the Bay of Salamis. Raising my voice above screams for mercy and of terror, I reached the closing stage of the battle:
At last, however, the Persians were able to attack from behind, and the surviving Spartans withdrew to a low mound at the entrance to the pass — that is, to where a stone lion is now placed in memory of King Leonidas. Here, they continued fighting against overwhelming odds. Those who still had them fought with knives. Those who had lost all their weapons fought on with hands and teeth. It was only by volley after volley of arrows that their resistance was ended and all were finally killed.
I think I was expected to continue into the next chapter. But one of the prettier boys suddenly broke free of the guards and ran forward and threw himself into a prostration. ‘Please, Your Majesty,’ he sobbed — ‘please don’t hurt me. I didn’t mean any harm.’
Chosroes stopped scratching himself and got up. ‘Come into my embrace, Babar,’ he cried in a voice of soft affection. He took the boy and kissed his face. He squeezed his behind and pulled a face in my direction. ‘You should have asked me, Babar,’ he said. ‘You should have said how you longed to share the sweet taste of my melon. How could I have denied you anything?’ He kissed the boy again and stroked his oiled hair. With a spasm of rage, he pushed him into the arms of one of the guards. ‘Take him away,’ he screamed. ‘Geld him. Blind him. Put him in a cage. I’ll think of a punishment after dinner.’ He kicked the boy backwards and stood over him. He looked at me again, his eyes shining mad. He controlled himself. ‘No, don’t take him away,’ he said to the guards. ‘Gag him and do it here. I want my friend Alaric to see the justice of a Great King.’
I’ll pass over the ghastliness of all that happened next. If you’ve a taste for sick porn, you’re approaching the end of the wrong memoir. It was eventually over. The unconscious boy was pulled out of our sight. The bodies of the dead and dying were dragged outside into the rain. The dozen boys who’d survived sat cross-legged on the ground. They sat in silence, their eyes turned down. Urvaksha was rattling his chain again and talking about his infallible knots.
‘Is the lion memorial still there at Thermopylae?’ Chosroes asked.
Cautiously, I shook my head. ‘I believe it was taken apart and used to reinforce the pass a few hundred years ago,’ I said.
‘So what did they fight for?’ he asked triumphantly. ‘Where is Sparta now? Where even is Athens? If I hear right, it’s a provincial town in the middle of nowhere. Why did they resist Xerxes? All he wanted was surrender.’ He nodded to the man behind me. The sword came away from my throat and one of the eunuchs brought me a cup of wine. I avoided answering the question by sniffing at the cup.
Chosroes laughed. ‘No poison for you, Alaric!’ he said, pushing his face close to mine. ‘No death for my young friend Alaric. Why, not even a sniff of the torments I resolved for you after your treacherous escape from Ctesiphon.’ His face darkened for a moment. Then he was all grinning maniac again. ‘Drink, my friend, and be happy.’ He took the cup from me and lapped its contents with his tongue. ‘Drink — it’s perfectly safe.’
‘The knots tell me he’s a bigger snake than last time,’ Urvaksha called up from the floor. ‘They say you should kill him.’ As if in agreement, the man with the sword poked me gently in the back. I sniffed and didn’t look round.