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VII There never was an army quite like Xerxes’. Hyrcanians, Medes, Egyptians, Syrians, Scyths – soon, Greece would grovel at its tender mercies – a fate more gruesome than the grimmest myths. It drank whole rivers dry. Took three days with the crossing of the bridge. Then came a scare: as Persian lava swamped its xenolith, the portents were not good. A pregnant mare gave birth to healthy offspring. But it was a hare. VIII A blundering boxer trying to swat a fly, the Persian force could lunge, but could not kill: it lost all credit at Thermopylae. The Greeks, hard pressed, were in the battle still. To win a war, you break the other’s will, and this was not occurring. Could the key be naval warfare? So, for good or ill, Salamis earned its place in history. The fleets would clash there. Whose would be the victory? IX A tyrant’s strength is his Achilles’ Heel. His habit of command, of being obeyed, occludes capacity to see and feel. To trap them at their moorings seemed a raid assured to smash the Greeks. Their fleet once flayed, they could not go on fighting. They must lose. But Persia’s pride, colossal numbers, made disaster certain. Tangled, cramped, confused, the sharks became the bait. For Xerxes, dreadful news. X “My bridge. Is it still standing?” Xerxes asked. Oh, in that question, what a universe! The pampered prince who - up to now - had basked in sunshine felt a clutch of fear, and worse: the tide of fortune, swinging to reverse, began to drain him of all certainty. The bridge was now his lifeline, and his curse, his last hope and his vulnerability. Persepolis lay far away, fenced off by sea. XI So, despots kneel before their own adventures, become the playthings of their crazy schemes, contract with Fate, creating wild debentures, condemn themselves by sure-to-crumble dreams. Unhappy with mere wealth, they seek extremes which bring no comfort: sick ambitions bloat and fester. Most familiar of themes, Great Xerxes’ boasts grew more and more remote, until the day his restless minions cut his throat.
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