by Jay Penner
The letter ended abruptly as if Plato had decided not to send it to Axiandros. I sat stunned.
I had read about Atlantis in Plato’s works and accepted that Plato had forged the story as a lesson about greed. Some speculated if there was once a real Atlantis. This letter suggested that not only Atlantis was real, in some way, but also that this powerful empire left something behind. That was when the reality pierced me like Zeus’ trident—Eumenes wishes to seek it for himself and possess the riches and weapons. He wanted to be the next Alexander!
The arrow of the secret had flown from Solon or someone else, to Plato, to Callisthenes, to Eumenes, and then to me—so far unhindered, undiscovered, as if by a miracle or sheer fortune due to the death and failure of others in its quest.
I heard a stirring from the house. Alarmed, I put the papers back into the box and turned back. It was just my tired companions snoring, loud enough for Ptolemy to hear on his way to Egypt with Alexander’s body. I turned my attention back to the contents. Next, I delicately extracted the older papyri.
I did not recognize the script on the upper half of each page. The bottom, however, was in an older dialect of Greek—no doubt that this was written long ago.
What came before these pages, one would never know, for it began as if in continuation of a saga that the writer wished for the world to learn. Or more likely, I surmised, Plato only received or preserved the most relevant portions. I began to read.
The Oracles told the Lord that they feared a great cataclysm beneath our feet and fury of the seas around us, for the ground had trembled every so often, weeks on end, a sign of the displeasure of gods for our sins, while the kingdom lay ready to invade every continent, but our plans now at peril.
So, the Lord, alarmed at what he heard, instructed the Council to prepare for the preservation of our riches, our glorious new weapons of war, our knowledge, and our greatest people, secretly from the Egyptians, the chariot wielders of the East, the bull worshippers of the Great Island of the Sea, the barbarians from The North, and wait for the divine signs to rise again.
The Council set sail to find a location, and find they did, far away in the distant continent, inside mountains in the desert. Then, the Lord ordered a city built inside and called it the divine city in the rocks, the new home hidden from the world. While our glorious island may perish someday, our new home shall bloom like a magnificent flower in the desert mountains and spawn a thousand cities.
For five harvests, the architects, masons, builders, and a great many slaves, under the orders of the Council and watchful eyes of the Lord, exploited great domes inside the rocks and seeded them from a hundred ships that set sail.
The Lord put a thousand conspirators, rumor mongers, traitors, and many unknown innocents, to death to preserve the secrets. The task completed, when the multitude of the men and women greeted the Lord and the Council to admire what wondrous place they built for all their future, he called a heavenly banquet in their honor, and but for a few, with agreement from the Council, put them to the sword as they ate.
And then he ordered the city sealed, hidden from the world to see, preserved until he and his Council awaited the omen from the gods, back on the island where the Council and the greatest citizens, unrepentant for what transpired, awaited the signs to go forth, rebuild, and conquer.
But the gods looked down upon this wanton cruelty, this depraved act, this unbridled ambition, this desire to spread death and destruction; and so, they invoked their wrath on the island. When the Sun set on the fourth day of the middle of the summer trade, the ocean boiled, and great smoke arose from the rumbling grounds, the birds flew, and the ports shook and crumbled. The Lord, with his Council and first citizens, prayed to the gods, but just as he showed no mercy, the gods showed none.
After seven days of shaking of the ground, liquid rock, red as blood and hot as the sun, spurted from the wounds that opened on the earth, burned all it met, and spared no place of worship or dwelling. And then on the eighth day, as the royals and nobles alike cowered in fear, there was a great upheaval of the earth, and god’s terrible power came forth from within the ground in tremendous plumes of fire and ash, and in that instant, the ambitions of an empire vanished as if a speck of dust in a desert storm. As a warning to man’s greed, all that was left of a once glorious empire was an island, now but lifeless rock and ash, like a blind eye as it looked to the heavens in despair.
Then what they created in distant lands is now only a mighty shell with gold and fire with no soul to nurture, no eyes to behold its beauty, and no king to spread its power.
My heart beat wildly. The next papyrus was not in the flowing prose of the author of the story. This appeared to be a different writer, and his words were simple and urgent.
Down the tongue of my ancestors is a story that talks of the divine city of rocks, and here I have captured truthfully, as Zeus himself attests, the words that I have been told. My search has found truth in many of these words, and yet the find eludes me.
With glorious seas all around, and the great eye beneath his feet, the Lord he towered over the adoring masses, and as the rays of the rising sun shone upon his regal visage, he lay his feet on the spine of the fist that fought the disquiet water below, pointed upon the endless sea, towards the far desert, where a knife’s tip awaits, seven days from the sea on burning sands and towering canyons. Three days north from the tip, within golden walls and red rocks, in there they found a magnificent mountain, and a hollow within, where they carved the last city of a great empire and filled it with riches greater than found in all of Libya, weapons not of this earth but designed by the gods themselves, and knowledge superior to all mankind. When the sun sets, the shadows play, the lord he smiles, and smiles away. A smile that welcomes to the doors to a magnificent temple.
The pages ended there, giving no further sign on their provenance, its author, or how he received the information. There were no other papers.
But why would the great Plato guard it so assiduously, if it were a hoax? There must have been some credence to this story. In my childhood, I had heard wondrous stories of lost civilizations, great floods, and hidden treasures—some certainly came from these origins. Briefly, my mind wandered to imagining what magnificent find lay hidden, but then quickly returned to the present. And that slow anger began to fill my head again—like water reaching its boiling point, bubbling, steaming.
Eumenes had lied.
He had risked not only my life but also my family’s, and not had the decency to tell me the truth.
I sat with my back on the wall and brooded. My mind contemplated the alternatives.
I could go back to Ptolemy with this.
Or Antigonus.
Or Perdiccas himself!
Each of those men vied for supremacy, and any one of them would be thrilled with this find if it were true.
I stood up and paced around in the courtyard. The calm skies and the rustle of the trees helped soothe the turbulence in my head. It dawned upon me that my decisions would affect not just my family and me, but the multitude in the three continents. For all his failings, Eumenes was the just among all the others. He was not a career general, was far less bloodthirsty and brutal, and despite his reasons to lie to me, he was the most honorable.
In Eumenes’ hands, I felt, this secret may lead to good—peace and tranquility. And those were essential for my retirement! Besides, I had a contract with Eumenes—and there was no guarantee that the other tyrants would believe me or even care. I could not risk their unpredictability. Besides, I could see a reason for Eumenes to hide this from me—what if I had rejected his mission? Who would he go to with such a monumental secret? And if I did nothing, what chance did I have to return unscathed?
The gods surely smiled at the twisted path they lay for me. I made my plans to reconnect with Eumenes, take my rewards, and end this journey, no matter how strange exciting the story before me was.
But to do that I had to find him.
&nbs
p; He had much to answer.
I decided that I would reach Damascus and then plot a course. But for tonight, I was exhausted. So much had happened that I could no longer think any further. I packed the contents of the box carefully, put it back to my bag, and tiptoed to the house.
I lay my head on my bag and let exhaustion take over.
I dreamt a terrible dream that night.
My wife begged and cried, holding our infant daughter, as Krokinos dragged her by the ankles, through dark, wet mud, towards the entrance of a mine. I stood watching them as Ptolemy laughed, holding Eumenes’ severed head in one hand and Plato’s papyri in the other.
MACEDON
❅
There was much commotion in the courtyard—loud wails, shouting, and sounds of violence. A guard threw open the door to the basement room, which was now Apollonia’s living quarters, along with many other servants of the household. She squinted in the bright light that bathed the dark interior and heard him shout at them to get up and come with him.
Apollonia tapped her sleeping daughter’s shoulder, and her heart hammered against the ribs as she joined others heading to the courtyard. There was a large crowd taking up all available space around the central fountain, stone pathways, and shrubs. There was no chirping of the birds even in this early morning, and the fetid air was still with sadness and fear. Krokinos stood in one corner, conferring with several burly men who each wore only a loincloth and had various ornamentations on their ears, wrists, and ankles. A line of armed guards stood in front of a mass of miserable, forlorn group of men, women, and children who looked filthy and exhausted. They were not part of Krokinos’ household and appeared to have come with the men who now stood speaking with Krokinos.
“All of you in a line, and quiet!” screamed one of the guards, and Apollonia and Alexa shuffled along with the rest to stand shoulder to shoulder. The mother and daughter held hands and looked around nervously. No one from the outside group held their eyes, and only a few suppressed sobs emanated until they fell silent under the crack of a whip. For a few minutes nothing happened, and finally, five loincloths came forward and spread evenly in front of the line of twenty-three. Apollonia heard nothing but the roaring blood that rushed into her face and ears, and her chest constricted with fear. The loincloths looked on dispassionately; their black eyes showed no emotion and faces a mute stone wall of indifference.
Krokinos stood hidden behind one of the larger men, his bony visage barely visible. Diona, who had said little so far except to trail her husband and whisper into his ears, finally piped up.
“What are you waiting for? I cannot stand here all day!” and she snapped her fingers in irritation.
The loincloth at the far end of the line reached forward and firmly grasped the biceps of a man and his son—a boy no older than twelve. A wave of gasps rose from the line, and the boy began to shout, “Father! Father!” The man frantically tried to grab the boy, and the loincloth let go of the boy and swung at the man, causing him to lose his footing and fall. A guard dragged the boy to the outside group, and another cracked a whip on the fallen man who screamed and jumped back to his feet. He too was shoved into the mass of miserable humanity. Many of the women in the line began to cry, and one of them appealed to Diona.
“Mistress! What is going on? Please! Master!”
Diona did not respond, and Krokinos walked away to confer with the men.
“Why are you selling us? Why? I have been your faithful—” She began to wail, and it finally dawned upon everyone what was happening. A great commotion rose in the courtyard as some attempted to flee and others began to plead and shout. Krokinos hid among the guards, and the loincloths and their men began to systematically club the frantic crowd to submission as the guards corralled them to a dense corner.
Apollonia began to pray, and her body began to shake uncontrollably. Alexa stood deathly quiet, as if by shock or to shut the horrifying scene unfolding in front of her eyes. The rank smells of fear, urine, sweat, and desperation was overwhelming—and Apollonia hugged her daughter who now began to whimper, “Mother, mother.”
In desperation, Apollonia began to shout at Krokinos, “You promised to wait until my husband returns! Master, please!” But in the din, Krokinos did not hear her or pretended not to. Diona, who never had a kind word for Apollonia, smirked and turned away.
One by one, the loincloths grabbed those that they had chosen and shoved them to the guards who pushed them to the caravan. For a while, no one approached Apollonia as she stood huddled with her daughter, trembling with fear, their eyes closed. It felt for a moment that the world was at peace—there was chirping, a gentle brush of wind kissed her neck teasingly, and a horse somewhere neighed. And then as if a monster from the Hades rose to consume all good in the world, Apollonia felt the powerful hands of the slave trader grab her by the waist, and before a sound escaped from her mouth, she felt lifted. In panic, she turned and screamed for Alexa, but her daughter was nowhere to be seen, and her calls were drowned in the cacophony of anguish. She beat the man who held her, but to no avail, and he pushed her hard into the mass of people.
Even as she wailed, another set of guards swiftly forced them to push against each other into a foul dense mass, and then tied the hands of each condemned to the one next. An older man, not from Krokinos’ household, fell to the side and the guards raised angry welts on his back, but Apollonia registered none of it, now numbed by shock.
“Leave your belonging, none of it is necessary where you are going!” said one of the loincloths, and the other laughed.
“You will need none of it for the rest of your lives, or whatever is left of it,” said another, as he mocked a woman who looked up fearfully.
“Come on, get ready to move!” A guard yelled and hustled the group towards the door. Apollonia looked around frantically for her daughter, but the column was surrounded by dust hindering visibility. “Alexa! Alexa!” She screamed until her voice was hoarse but heard nothing back. Just then, the disheveled woman next to her tapped her shoulder, “How old is your daughter?”
“Nine! She is just nine!” Apollonia said, tears flowing down her cheeks.
“Then she will be in front of the caravan with other children. You will get to see her in a few hours when we stop.”
Relief washed over Apollonia. “How do you know?”
“My son is seven. They let us see our children to keep us in check. They threaten to sell the children separately if we misbehave or try to escape.”
The dark reality dawned on her.
There was no escape.
As curious onlookers watched, the long column trudged along on a rocky path. Apollonia alternatively cursed her husband and prayed for his return, but feared that it was too late.
CAPPADOCIA & PISIDIA
❅
Seleucus stood quietly as Perdiccas paced furiously. They had received news from multiple sources that Ptolemy had attacked the procession and made off with Alexander's body. Not only had Ptolemy killed Cleomenes, but he had also now explicitly gone against the Regent’s orders, the Royals’ wishes, and performed an outrageous act abetted by that treacherous scoundrel Arrhidaeus.
Perdiccas told Seleucus that Eumenes had warned him on this outcome and that a messenger had arrived with a missive a few weeks earlier which he did not heed because it seemed preposterous, but this disaster has struck him just after he had finished an exhausting campaign in Cappadocia.
When the council assigned various territories to the generals, Eumenes had received Cappadocia, but the region, not previously entirely subdued by Alexander, was ruled by an independent warlord named Ariarathes. This mad man, now old and nearing eighty years of his life, refused to cede territory. Since Eumenes was still not a fully battle-tested commander, Perdiccas had asked Antigonus to help Eumenes. But Antigonus, who saw himself senior to Perdiccas, and having never gone with Alexander in the eastern campaign, refused. So, Perdiccas was forced to go subdue the warlord and give the region t
o Eumenes. He waged a brutal campaign against Ariarathes, and eventually captured him and his family. He also wanted to make an example of Ariarathes to make sure no one dared to go against his orders. The soldiers tied the old man to a wooden crucifixion post, and in front of his wailing family they hacked off his ears, cut his fingers, severed his right foot, and left it a bloody stump. And then they left him nailed to the post, denied him his last rites, and let the animals pick on his flesh.
Perdiccas then put to death most of Ariarathes’ family. By now everyone knew what it meant to go against his wishes, and this was a warning not just to his enemies, but also to everyone aligned to him. He spared Ariarathes’ young niece and stepson, with the understanding that they would bid his orders.
Then he returned south to Pisidia and was aware of the rumblings in Greece and Hellespont. “Can you believe his audacity, Seleucus? Who does that bastard think he is!” Perdiccas raged.
“Preposterous! You would think Ptolemy had more sense than this.”
“He got what he wanted, and then he decides it is insufficient. I intend to put an end all this nonsense,” Perdiccas said, pointing at Seleucus.
“What are you planning to do?” Seleucus asked, his genial face hiding his apprehension.
“I will take both the Kings—Philip and little Alexander, and with the power of their legitimacy behind them I plan to turn the troops of Ptolemy against him and crucify that traitor!” Perdiccas screamed, his face red with exertion, his eyes wild after a bout of heavy drinking. He fidgeted, and his hands shook. He had not shaved his facial hair and looked like an unkempt, drunk soldier.
Seleucus looked at Perdiccas, unsure how to react. Ptolemy was highly respected, and there was no question that the abundant riches of Egypt helped Ptolemy keep his troops happy. His possession of Alexander’s corpse made the question of legitimacy a lot more delicate.