Mika Waltari - The Etruscan

“Should we forego firm ground and choose a swaying deck for our battleground?” I asked. “After all, you hate the sea and your face pales when the ship rolls.”

But Dorieus was firm. “It is summer and the sea is calm. Besides, I am heavily armored and can fight on deck where the air is fresh. A vessel moves, walls do not. Let us go to Lade and look around.”

We let ourselves be rowed to Lade. It was easy, since boats continually plied the waters between the city and the peninsula. Provisions, fruit and wine were regularly brought to the fleet and the sailors in turn ceaselessly visited the golden city.

At Lade we saw innumerable warships from all the Ionian cities, the largest being those from Miletus. Daily the vessels streamed out through the narrow channel to the open sea where they arranged themselves in formation, oarblades gleaming in the sunlight. Then, increasing their speed until the water foamed, they practiced ramming enemy ships with their huge underwater metallic heads.

By far the greater number of ships, however, were beached along the shores of the island where their crews had spread out sails to protect themselves from the sun. The entire island echoed with the cries of peddlers, the brawling of wine-drinkers, the arguments of the commanders, and the usual Greek chatter. But many of the men slept through the noise in sheer exhaustion.

Dorieus talked to several sailors. “Why are you lying here, drinking wine, when the Persians’ fleet is approaching? They are said to have as many as three or four hundred warships.”

“Let us hope that they have a thousand,” replied the men, “so that this dreary war will soon be over. We are free lonians, skilled on land and even more skilled at sea, where the Persians have never yet bested us.”

But having boasted a while, the men began to complain. “We are worried only about our ambitious and war-mad commanders who compel us to row back and forth in the heat of midday and treat us more like slaves than the Persians would. Our hands are full of blisters and the skin is peeling from our faces.”

They showed us their hands which were in truth blistered and torn, for these men were city dwellers who had led sheltered lives at their various trades. They felt that it was senseless to row back and forth and exhaust the crews.

“So,” they said, “we have chosen new and wiser commanders. Now we are resting and gathering our strength so that we will be like lions when the Persians attack.”

As the evening grew cool and the calm surface of the sea turned wine-colored, the last five vessels came towards their camp site on the island. They were only penteconters, but their fifty oars rose and fell, rowed and backed water as smoothly and rhythmically as though a single man had been at the sweeps.

Dorieus looked upon them favorably. “Let us find out from which city these vessels come and who their commander is.”

When the oars had been pulled in, the rowers jumped into the water to beach the galleys. At the same time some exhausted men were tossed overboard and sufficiently revived in the water so that they could crawl to shore, where they collapsed on the sands. A few would have drowned had not their companions dragged them to safety. The galleys bore no decorations or figures of deities, but they were strong, narrow and seaworthy, and stank of tar and pitch.

We waited until the campfires had been lighted. When those still on the shore caught the smell of porridge and root vegetables, bread and oil, they dragged themselves towards the pots. Then we joined the men and asked their identity.

“We are poor and humble men from Phocaea,” they replied, “and our commander is Dionysius, a brutal and merciless man whom we would kill if we dared.”

But as they spoke they laughed, and the food tasted good to them even though it was not rich like that served on the ships of Miletus. They pointed out their commander who in appearance was no different from them, merely a large, bearded and very dirty man.

Dorieus went to him, clanking his leg guards, waving the plumes on his helmet and flashing his silver-ornamented shield.

“Dionysius, commander of the Phocaean ships, hire me and my friend to fight the Persians with you.”

Dionysius roared with laughter. “If I had the money I would certainly hire you to be my ship’s emblem, for your bold appearance would be enough to frighten the Persians. I myself have only a leather helmet and breastplate and I do not fight for money but for my city’s and my own glory. It is true that, in addition to glory, I hope to seize a few Persian ships for their loot. Otherwise my men will kill me and throw me overboard, which they threaten to do daily.”

“Don’t anger my friend,” I said. “He is slow to laughter. Nowadays a heavily armored marine is paid five and even ten drachmas a day.”

Dionysius retorted, “I also am slow to laughter, perhaps even more so than your friend. But these days I have learned to laugh readily. More Persian gold is circulating in this camp than I would have believed possible. We drink and gorge ourselves, dance and sing, boast and argue, and even I, a gruff man, have learned to amuse my men. But the craziest thing I have yet heard is that you two apparently experienced warriors are volunteering to join my forces although I have neither striped sails nor bracelets on my arms.”

“We are looking at the matter as soldiers,” said Dorieus. “With or without wages we would rather fight on a vessel whose oars obey the wishes of the commander than serve on a ship whose crew willfully chooses its own leaders. I am not familiar with naval warfare, but on the basis of what I have seen at Lade today you are the only true sailor.”

Dionysius listened and took a liking to us. Dorieus and I both had our pay and some Persian gold with which we bought several armfuls of sacrificial meat from Poseidon’s altar for the crew, as well as some-wine, much to Dionysius’ amazement.

“We are Phocaeans,” he told us that night, “and as such we live and die on the sea. Our forefathers established a colony in Massilia, far beyond the western sea. Our fathers learned the art of naval warfare while fighting the Tyrrhenians in the west, but did not return to teach us their skill. Thus we have had to learn for ourselves.”

To prove his point he suddenly ordered the alert to be blown on the conchs. The men, awakened from their deep sleep, stumbled to the ships and in the darkness untied the masts, raised and wedged them into place and unfurled the sails before I had time to clamber onto the deck. Despite their speed Dionysius flailed at them with a length of rope, cursed and roared and called them snails.

The din awakened all the other camps on the island, alerts were sounded and the rumor spread that the Persians were coming. Many wept in fear and attempted to conceal themselves in the bushes. The commanders shouted orders in vain and the confusion on the island was even greater than it had been during the day. When it became known that Dionysius had blown on the conchs merely to train his men to act in the darkness, the commanders came at us with bared weapons and threats to kill us if we again disturbed their sleep. But Dionysius’ men ran toward them with taut ropes over which they stumbled, losing their shields and swords. Had not the men been so sleepy, a full war might have broken out among the lonians.

Naval warfare is merciless warfare and no land battle can be compared to it. Having experienced it, I will not speak too harshly of the ships of Miletus and its allies, for they were undeniably excellent and their crews fearless. After they had grumbled a while the men rowed out to sea and exhausted themselves at the oars. Nothing is more dangerous than a sweep in the hands of an inexperienced man, for it can strike his head or snap his ribs. I know it well, for Dionysius thrust an oar into my hand and it took the skin off my palms within a day.