Elephants and Castles

by Alfred Duggan

  ‘What’s up?’ he called to the shipmaster. ‘The battle’s won, isn’t it? Haven’t the men done enough for today?’

  ‘The fighting is over, my lord,’ answered the sailor, ‘but the day’s work isn’t. If it’s a question of gathering booty the men have one more spurt left in them. Look beyond that headland. Can you see masts showing? It’s Ptolemy’s transports and baggage, sailing ships all of them; and they are stuck in that bay with the wind foul for Egypt. Our lads want to pick up what’s due to them before the mud-crushers come from the siege-lines and steal it all. I’ve heard that Ptolemy uses a silver chamberpot at home in Alexandria. I wonder does he take it to war with him?’

  ‘I expect so. I brought mine, though it’s gold, not silver. But I am a Saviour God and Ptolemy’s only a Pharaoh. Silly of me to forget the spoils. I enjoy fighting so much that sometimes I forget what we are fighting for.’

  ‘You fought for the world, my lord god, and you have won it. All the same, I would like a silver chamber-pot. Permission to proceed, sir?’ When asking for orders a veteran shipmaster omitted divine attributes.

  While the flagship led the fleet to plunder, Demetrius sat in his chair in a weary stupor. Through his head ran the wonderful phrase: ‘I fought for the world and I have won it.’

  By nightfall he was bathed and rested, ready for the feast which would celebrate victory. Clerks had worked out rough estimates of casualties. From his own fleet no ship had been lost; though many were damaged, some so badly that they were not worth repairing. All the same, the record stood: Demetrius, ships sunk, nil, ships captured, nil: 120 of Ptolemy’s ships were definitely accounted for, sunk, captured, or wrecked on the shore; which meant that old Pharaoh had got away with twenty at most. But this was only the beginning. The full harvest of victory was still to be gathered.

  As they drank the second toast a sentry reported the arrival of envoys from Menelaus, seeking terms of surrender.

  ‘Wise of him to yield while he can still fight on,’ Demetrius murmured lazily. ‘Since he has saved me time and trouble I shall be generous. Quarter for everyone, of course. Soldiers to be discharged after laying down their arms. Officers lay down their arms and get a free passage to Egypt. Ships to be handed over undamaged. That’s liberal. So much for the mighty Menelaus, brother to the King of Egypt.’

  ‘Sixty more ships, and undamaged in battle,’ said Telesphorus from his couch nearby. ‘Do you realise, cousin, that you now command the only first-class navy this side of Sicily? The Thalassocracy of Demetrius - it sounds even grander than Demetrius the Saviour God,’

  ‘More intelligible, anyway,’ answered Demetrius with a smile. ‘There have been other Rulers of the Sea, and we can recall their deeds. No one knows what a Saviour God can accomplish. Well, the only way to find out is by trying. That will be fun,’

  Aristodemus could never keep out of any conversation. The voice of wisdom should be raised when ignorant soldiers chatted.

  ‘Let me see,’ he said weightily, ‘Ptolemy has lost his fleet, and he can’t build another. Cassander never had much of a navy. Now that you are so strong he will lay up his ships, except perhaps in the Euxine. Yes, it’s broadly true that you have the only navy in the civilised world. Not absolutely true, of course. Out west there are the Carthaginians and Agathocles of Sicily; and even in home waters Rhodes has some good ships,’

  ‘You said the civilised world, so you mustn’t count the Carthaginians,’ Demetrius answered sharply. ‘Agathocles is a friend of mine, or at least not an enemy. Up to now the Rhodians have refused to fight in the cause of freedom because they want to trade with Egypt. When they hear of this battle they will join my Island League. They are civilised Hellenes. In fact I hear they have built a very fine city.’

  Privately he considered what a bore Aristodemus could be. In love with the sound of his own voice, that was his trouble. He wished he could think of some way to get rid of him. But he could not put a slight on the old windbag, a faithful servant of his father. Suddenly he had an inspiration.

  ‘I have a job for you, Aristodemus,’ he said pleasantly. ‘You weigh up a situation so clearly, as you have just demonstrated. You are the right man to explain the good news to my father. Yes, I appoint you special envoy from the Saviour God Demetrius to announce his deeds to the Saviour God Antigonus. No need to travel post. Choose your ship and your escort, and make the journey in appropriate grandeur. You were on the shore, I believe, where you could see everything. Father will appreciate the account of an eye-witness. Since the rest of us will return to Hellas by way of the islands we shan’t have time to look up Father, wherever he may be in Asia,’

  ‘And that’s the last I shall see of him for this year,’ he thought with satisfaction. He knew how the philosopher enjoyed pomp. A command to travel in grandeur would be obeyed with enthusiasm; probably the old boy would cover ten miles a day in an ivory litter.

  ‘We can’t move just yet,’ said the chief quartermaster. ‘I need more shipping, for one thing. I suppose we engage any of the mercenaries of Menelaus who are willing to enlist? Most of them will volunteer, I imagine. We have the money to pay them, and it’s always wise to get hold of good soldiers before they go off and enlist with Cassander.’

  ‘Let ’em all come. They will be bringing freedom to Hellas, so Hellas shall contribute to their pay. No difficulty on that score. If there were 13,000 to start with I suppose about 10,000 will join us. They must have come here by sea, so their transports ought to be somewhere in Cyprus.’

  ‘We are forgetting Ptolemy’s transports,’ said Telesphorus. ‘What became of them? I suppose they were gathered in?’

  ‘Indeed yes, the sailors were most amiable and obliging.’ Demetrius spoke carelessly, a god admitting that his humble worshippers had fulfilled their duty. ‘As soon as the flagship reached them they surrendered in a body, anxious only that I should take over before someone stole their anchors. So I gave them a guard of steady marines and came here as fast as I could. The marines were to check over what they found, and let me know later about anything of interest.’

  ‘Hard luck on our sailors, who might have taken rich plunder,’ said an officer at a distant table. You could say anything you liked to Demetrius the Saviour God; he was too august to be careful of his dignity.

  ‘They’ll get their plunder. You don’t think I would try to cheat them? Ptolemy’s war-chest, for example, and any gold or silver ornaments from his headquarters. All that will be divided among our sailors. But those transports carried the women and children of the Egyptian army. I don’t see why they should be raped and enslaved. Nobody will have his throat cut, either, and that’s a clear gain. Wasn’t I right to accept a peaceful surrender? What do you think, cousin?’

  ‘At first there may be a little grumbling,’ said Telesphorus. ‘You don’t see such a victory every day. But in the long run the troops will agree with you. Anything that makes war more of a sport and less of a massacre suits professional mercenaries.’

  ‘You see I was right again, as a god is always right,’ said Demetrius in a contented voice. ‘I wonder what Ptolemy took with him on campaign? He was planning a long stay in Cyprus, and I’m sure the old Pharaoh makes war in comfort. It will be interesting to hear the inventory. We ought to know by midnight. As I left they were beginning to inspect the ships.’

  But on this glorious night everyone was swift to serve the victorious Saviour God. An hour before midnight messengers brought an inventory of the spoil, hastily scribbled on sheets of the best Egyptian paper. Demetrius, still reasonably sober, indicated with a lordly wave of the hand than his quartermaster should read it.

  ‘We have Ptolemy’s war-chest, all right,’ the quartermaster began. ‘Bullion and cash to the amount of - ’

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ Demetrius interrupted. ‘That’s plunder. It goes to the sailors, not to me. If I know how much I am giving up I might be tempted to steal some of it. Let it pass. Just tell me my share.’

  ‘One hundred
and twelve undamaged transports, carrying about eight thousand troops. All these men have volunteered to enter your service, my lord god, and they are now being mustered into your army.’

  ‘To many - more than I need,’ Demetrius interrupted again. ‘But I expect Father can find room for them. Send them to Asia to join the invincible army of the Saviour God Antigonus.’

  ‘About another hundred ships carrying baggage, wives and families, and so on; with a number of small barges and cutters. That’s a difficulty we often run into, my lord god,’ he said in a different tone. ‘There is an established rating for warships and transports, but no one can draw a line between baggage ships and barges. They merge into one another.’

  ‘About what you would expect for an army of 8,000,’ Demetrius muttered with a yawn. ‘Remind me to have a go at cutting down our own followers. We all know that a mercenary has no home but the camp. Still, that’s no reason why he should expect me to feed his aged parents and all his unmarried female cousins. Anything else of interest?’

  ‘A transport containing furniture for Ptolemy’s headquarters on land, very splendid beds and chairs and tables of Egyptian make. His gilded armour of parade, embroidered horse-trappings, a campaigning throne and standard. But not apparently any part of the regalia of Egypt.’

  ‘He was too cautious to bring it, with a battle in prospect. Shows that he was a bit scared of defeat. A pity. They tell me that in Alexandria he wears a very fine double crown, for Upper and Lower Egypt. I should like to wear it myself.’

  ‘You will soon be wearing it, my lord god. It awaits you in Alexandria. Meanwhile you have his campaigning equipment. Another large ship carries his domestic servants, to the number of about two hundred, mostly female. My subordinate awaits instructions on their disposal. Will you take them into your household, or send them back to Egypt with the officers, or sell them as spoil of war?’

  ‘Two hundred dancing girls? The old boy does himself well. I shan’t take on all of them, but I may as well look over the gifts that victory has brought me unsought. Yes, tomorrow I shall pick out a few, and the rest can go back to Egypt. To sell a king’s dancing girls in the common slave-market would be rather hard on them. They might be bought by vulgar fellows, not the kind of master they are used to. Well, that settles the business of the day. Tomorrow all troops will rest in their quarters. Now pass the wine round once more, and what about a song?’

  In the morning Demetrius slept late, so that it was mid-afternoon before he could inspect the captured baggage. Ptolemy’s camp equipment included many silver chamber-pots, which were added to the sailor’s share of the spoil. The couches, chairs and stools were very curiously made; but their Egyptian style of decoration was unfitting for the Liberator of Hellas. He decided to send the furniture to his father; it could be kept as a trophy in the new palace now building at Antigoneia on the Orontes.

  The eunuchs in charge of the dancing girls had pitched a large marquee on the beach, where their flock could be herded out of sight of common sailors. It was the marquee intended for their use if Ptolemy had come safely to land, a roomy affair of purple linen and gauzy curtains. In the doorway stood the chief eunuch, ready to welcome his new lord as he would have welcomed Ptolemy; at sight of the bodyguard he was so distressed that Demetrius, not to upset the wizened creature, went into the tent alone.

  At his entry the whole establishment sprang into action. A troupe of strapping black women clapped their hands rhythmically and screeched in high thin voices as they wriggled their bellies at him; plump Syrians waggled their bottoms instead of their bellies; skinny Egyptians waved their feet in the air as they pranced on their hands, though they bent back their heads lest their bushy black wigs fall awry. The exhibition was interesting, and not without a curious charm. But it was so undignified, so unrestrained, that he knew he could never bring such an entourage to Hellas.

  He was about to calm their apprehensions by proclaiming that they would soon be back in Egypt when a woman came up boldly and stood before him, speaking as though to an equal.

  She was a Hellene, evidently, and in this company she stood out because she wore clothes, a knee-length tunic slit at the side. Putting a hand on his shoulder, she bent forward to bellow in his ear: ‘Don’t send me back to Egypt. I play the flute, and pretty well or so they say in Alexandria. Give me a hearing somewhere quiet and then perhaps you will take me to Hellas. I’ve never been there and I want to hear the best Hellenic music before I am too old to play it,’

  The absurdity of anyone discussing music in this mass of writhing flesh, this private brothel, tickled his fancy. ‘Come outside,’ he shouted above the ululations of the Nubians. ‘Put on a cloak, and come to my quarters,’ He was too distracted to look at her closely, but he had a vague impression that she was beautiful.

  He arranged to ship all the other women back to Ptolemy. That elderly Macedonian soldier must have strayed far from his decorous upbringing if he found their antics pleasing. Perhaps court etiquette had been too strong for him; perhaps this was the traditional relaxation of every Pharaoh.

  Back at headquarters he found the flute-player waiting for him, modestly muffled in a cloak among the crowd in his anteroom. As soon as he had disposed of pressing business he had her brought to his private tent.

  ‘My name is Lamia,’ she announced, still perfectly composed. ‘I am the best flute-player south of Taurus. That’s not boasting, I can show prizes to prove it. I am also considered well built. They had a competition in Alexandria, to pick models for their great statue of Aphrodite. You know this new fad for designing statues of the gods from a human model? I won three prizes at it, for thighs, shoulders and buttocks. If you know the night-life of Alexandria you will appreciate that I met strong opposition. Sculptors like me because I am a serious model and understand what they are trying to do. As for my figure, see for yourself. Now will you take me back to Hellas?’

  She unfastened the shoulder-brooch which held up her tunic and stood naked in the classical posture of Aphrodite, one hand at her breast, the other before her thighs.

  She was indeed very well built, thought Demetrius. But he had seen plenty of pretty girls in his time, and might see more whenever he felt in the mood for it. Her conversation was more surprising.

  ‘That’s not how a concubine talks,’ he said. ‘All about yourself, and yet without fishing for compliments. Not a word of praise for my manly beauty, or rather my divine beauty, no invitation, no appeal. You have the voice of a lady, too. But you speak like a man. That’s it. A man, a gentleman, recounting his successes in the Games.’

  ‘I would like to talk about music,’ she answered, breaking her pose to bend down and pick up her tunic. ‘Music is my real interest, but no one will listen. That’s because I play the flute. Composers take it for granted that a mere executant doesn’t understand the noises she makes. On sculpture again a mere model isn’t supposed to have opinions of her own. I have found that no one listens unless he can look at me as well. That’s why I usually take off my clothes before saying anything important.’

  ‘A sound plan, my dear, for someone of your shape. But sit down, fasten your brooch, and talk to me. Music, I’m afraid, is not my subject. To me a flute beats time to give the stroke to the rowers, or to keep the phalanx in step. That’s the worst of a military education. But I do know a little bit about sculpture. In Athens they made a lot of statues of me, and the sculptors chatted as they measured. They seemed full of bright ideas. What’s your name again? Lamia? Tell me, do these modern theories about sculpture matter, and if so, why?’

  ‘They are most important, because they are quite new. People have been making images since the world began; images of the gods, naturally. They were made in the shape of men or animals or a mixture of the two, because we can’t picture in our minds what a god looks like.’

  ‘I am a god, my dear Lamia. Now it’s your turn to look at me’

  ‘I’ve heard the story. But I am talking seriously, about the real gods
, the gods with power. No one knows what they look like; so they are shown as old men, or warriors, or attractive boys. Any old man will do, any handsome boy. The gods look like everybody, which means that they look like nobody. But some modern artists believe, though they have to keep quiet about it, that no being exists more powerful than Man. So they take a handsome warrior like you, or a pretty girl like me, and make a statue of us that is also a statue of the Divine. That’s never been done before, and I think it’s worth doing. The next step will be to make statues of ugly people, old women or cripples, and yet show that they have interesting spirits inside them. There are artists who could do it now; but they have to live, and no one will pay them to make ugly statues. It’s a borderline affair, you understand, a matter of walking a tight-rope without falling off. The statue of an ugly person, that is yet in itself beautiful. I believe it can be done. I want to see it done. That’s why I want to go to Hellas.’

  ‘Won’t Alexandria do? I’ve never been there, but they tell me it’s lousy with Art. Half the sculptors I met in Athens dreamed of getting to Alexandria, where they could use expensive materials and unlimited unskilled labour, and be paid more for the finished article than they could earn in a lifetime at home. Or I could send you to Antigoneia, the city my divine father is building. My father isn’t Ptolemy, he’s a soldier first and last. He isn’t interested in statues, all he wants are strong walls and a mighty citadel. But though he’s more than eighty years old he would appreciate a few statues of you, my dear. I forget who his court sculptor is, but I know he has one. Would you like me to put the man under your orders, to make the kind of statue you want to see?’