The ones who could have helped now evil-eyed them:
Surviving wives and widows, their angry buzz
Provoked by these replacement thieves of
husbands, widowers, and bachelors—worse, the bitches
Had focused most on those with well-filled britches.
Through all this, reconstruction still proceeded—
The unrest wasn’t civil, but erotic—
And yet, the more that Æacus softly pleaded
For moral self-restraint, the more quixotic
His toothless campaign seemed—and life, chaotic.
He persevered, for he was not a quitter,
But still, at times, he almost could feel bitter.
The worst part was his saviors—all those good,
Hard-working girls—brought this domestic flu,
Infecting subjects with their attitude
Like some new plague—which told him what to do:
The first was cured by gods, so this one too.
But prayers sent to Zeus would here depart amiss—
For these unmarried women, go to Artemis.
The temple of Aphaea on the hill
Was sacred to a nymph who, by that name
Or as Dictynna or another still,
Attended the wild goddess who they claimed
Was that great huntress giving Delos fame—
As Artemis, or also Hecate,
Aeginetans revered her specially.
For Greeks, you understand, were not so anal
As all those tidy myths make them appear,
Which turn religion into something banal.
Cults of Olympians were not so dear
As local shrines, or graves that gave them fear—
There is more power in a nearby ghost
Then all the gods of heaven’s distant host.
Her temple offered rites of incubation—
That is, a vigil overnight to pray
The goddess helps you with your situation.
The king climbed up the mountain, sans valet,
And after ritual cleansing, groped his way
Into the darkened sanctuary where
He lay upon a deer-hide, solitaire.
He listened in the quiet for her veiled
Small voice—but silent night was too well heard—
The crickets cricked—the nightingales engaled—
The itch was out of reach—at times he stirred
To ease his joints—his focus always blurred.
At last, he found the still point and could keep
Composed enough to hear . . . and fell asleep.
He had no dreams, but, waking—there—a sense
Of what to do, that seemed to linger on.
He left the temple with some confidence
And, slipping past his keepers in the dawn,
He hailed the first new girl he came upon,
The leader of some hunters: “Come with me.”
She waved her troop on with alacrity.
Her deference came from, the king inferred,
His air of firm command. But while he’d sought
Some goddess aid, a myrmidon had heard
A townsman call him “Queenie” with a pout.
The word ignited, like a spark in drought,
The tindered consciences of myrmidons:
“A queen? Not drone? He’ll know where we’ve gone wrong!”
He passed throughout the city, picking here
A trainer in the new palaestra, yonder
A wife directing husband-fetching, there
A building foreman, on a harbor wander
A female stevedore, and when he found her
His new ant steward—he pulled this human tide
Up to the temple and locked them all inside.
These leaders made by local acclamation
Were not allowed to leave till they created
An answer for the domestic situation.
Thus: New girls and survivors were equated,
To one of each, with this constraint: all three
Must live in mutual fidelity.
Because the tripling method must be fair
To all, before anyone else could try,
The girls had organized a system where
A weighted choice of mate could modify
That first informal rule of thumb, whereby
A husband, if all three of them connived,
Could have two town- or oak-born as his wives.
The news was greeted with relief—for here
Were rules for their sex ratio that seemed
Both equally (un)fair and not austere.
The plan was more complex than the king had dreamed,
But Æacus could grasp this fact: the scheme
Required king and castle to be listed
Among potential grooms—the girls insisted.
Alas for Æacus! He’d gotten heirs,
And duty done, he wanted his delayed ease
In arms of—well, in casual affairs;
And now both he and his were given ladies
He’d rather not have—that is—he—oh, Hades!
I see I’ll have to tell you all the sordid
Specifics of the household, clearly worded.
I’d hoped to gloss this over, but such is fate.
By now, the chance I’ll get a PG-rating
Is slimmer than a draw for inside straight,
What with the girls promiscuously mating,
So there’s no point in prudish hesitating—
Besides, a poet who won’t tell what’s true
Not only lies, but is a scoundrel too.
The king liked boys—or young men, I should say.
He’d married young at duty’s harsh direction
But when his first wife died, without delay
He indulged his paedic predilection
Learned from a mentor held in fond affection.
That “valet” was a pretty teen, well-bred,
Who dressed him, yes, but also warmed his bed.
No more though—no more sleeping in his arms;
No more watching youth turn, with the days,
Into a man; no more his boyish charms
Nor his hard body that led thoughts astray;
No more teaching a young protégé—
For Kallimorphos, when he could contrive,
Abandoned Æacus for his twin wives.
These childhood friends together had planned his break
From royal duties. The king, not knowing this,
In private cursed how Chance made him forsake
His chance for happiness—exchanged for his
Two ants. At least his had good statuses:
Two leaders, both negotiators, who’d
Grown fond of this old man who wasn’t lewd.
The chief of huntresses, blonde Cyrene,
Thought from her dawn encounter that the king
Was as quick-witted as leaders need to be.
Lampito knew, from daily stewarding
His castle, otherwise—while valuing
That all he did he did with good intent,
And, too, his pliancy to management.
When she’d arrived, the management was needed—
Old steward dead of plague, staff disarrayed;
She’d started giving orders; they were heeded.
The king’d ignored his household while it frayed
To dodder round his country—which dismayed
An erstwhile ant who pined for household order:
The queen’s house and the state had shared one border.
Between his servicing two wives (while jealous
Of his valet) the king could hardly stay
Upright. At least Lampito was less zealous
Near Cyrene, who balanced out her ways,
But by first light, her co-wife went away
On hunts, wh
ich left him in Lampito’s hands,
Her energy, her strength, and her demands.
The other men had no advice for him:
The elders, even those remarried, all
Had older wives who cut their juniors’ trim;
The youngsters, on the other hand, could call
Upon their energy. These national
Small compromises they were fashioning
Were different for the commons than the king.
Which goes to show that every permutation
Of bodies and of beds both can and will
Be tried—through all the times and nations
A marriage party usually is filled
Per balance of the sexes. It’s hard, still,
Because of claims from old religious quarrels,
To keep in mind conditions make our morals.
But such is life, distractible and local—
Like fights that have become their own excuse.
The king retreated into bland but vocal
Pigheadedness, pretending to be obtuse
On issues they debated—from the use
Of palace funds, to plans for his domain:
Not dredge the channel—repair the harbor chain.
“Without good trade, there’ll be no revenue,”
She argued, “and defenses cost too much.”
What can a wife (and former steward) do
When her good sense has been ignored? She clutched
Her righteousness, and upped demands a notch.
He thought he’d reached the depths of his dismay—
Then Cretan Minos rowed into the bay.
This ruler soi-disant of all the seas
Had wrested Crete from regent brothers, all
So he and his could do just as they please—
Wife’s tastes were bestial, son’s beastial,
Which worked, for his were architectural.
He’d heard of small Aegina’s plague and flight
And thought he’d conquer it without a fight.
Alarms! Excursions! Mobilize our forces!
War ships in harbor! Enemies have come!
King Æacus was filled with all remorses—
He’d let the stubborn fight distract him from
Those critical defenses. He felt numb,
Especially when the ultimatum came:
Immediate submission or the flame.
Lampito realized, as her husband claimed,
Expensive walls and weapons were really needed;
The thought she’d weakened the nest left her shamed.
As men’s and myrmidons’ demands exceeded
Her rationed swords and shields, her hopes receded,
But with her co-wife gone—off hunting things—
’Twas left to her alone to aide the king.
Each side’s commander soon received reports:
Aegina’s rocky shores were all secure,
With no place for a landing but the port—
But there, alas, defensive works were poor.
The myrmidons were news, unknown before,
But Minos didn’t do a double-take.
“More women? Ha! They’re nothing.” Big mistake.
Formalities: Aegina spurned surrender.
Thus answered, Cretans landed on the quay,
To find that they were fighting either gender:
The men were trained, but women meaner—they
Threw all their strength and numbers in the fray,
All weapons raised against invading males:
Swords, brickbats, pointy sticks, teeth, fingernails.
At first they held their ground. Their viciousness
Unnerved the Cretans—myrmidons fought hard,
Ignoring danger, to protect their nest,
And men, to save their wives. Thus caught off-guard,
They were confined and couldn’t gain a yard,
But with good armor and their better training,
The Cretans forced a breech, and soon were gaining.
They battled house to house, result too clear,
Till Cyrene at last came from the hills
With all her huntresses, each armed with spears—
All former soldier ants fresh from the kill.
Resistance stiffened under her—but still,
The Cretan front kept rising up, not falling:
The death rate of defenders was appalling.
The myrmidonic tactics were the cause:
Their sense of strategy was mass attack
In crowded interference, without a pause
To make sure that reserves were at their back.
Retreat on purpose? The thought took them aback.
King Æacus soon realized that while he
Was not obeyed, they’d follow Cyrene.
But she was in the deepest thick of things
And wouldn’t back out either. It was hot,
But shielded by Lampito, our brave king
Worked through the battle din to where she fought—
Which made the ants who saw him quite distraught—
And once he caught her and her sole attention,
He then explained his tactical intention:
That first, Aeginetans in front fall back
To draw the Cretans out, then sides sweep in
Behind their rear, now open to attack.
The plan was good, but Cyrene didn’t grin—
She saw a flaw, much to the king’s chagrin:
“What keeps our enemy, while we retreat,
From pressing on to finish our defeat?”
Lampito, with her managerial skills,
Knew what: unused material for planned
New houses could make barricades to fill
The streets, behind which fighters could safely stand.
The work was quickly done at her command,
And Cyrene then plunged where battle pressed
To give the word: fall back, sweep round, invest.
They fell back in good order; with fighters freed,
As quick as knives her counter then attacked
The Cretans. Minos missed what happened—he’d
Blinked—suddenly, instead of helpless city sacked,
He’d lost his landing party. His wrist smacked,
He soothed his ego with an easy crime
And went to bully Athens one more time.
They held a sacrifice in celebration—
This after clean-up—during which they mourned
And newly dead were given their libation.
That done, while some remarriage plans were formed,
They partied hard—though Æacus was scorned
By Kallimorphos. Thrown into a funk,
He was consoled by getting rather drunk.
The skills of both his wives were sorely tested,
Cajoling him through the dregs of his expense—
Hung over, he was crabby and congested.
At least each thought well of the others’ sense
(Their organizing, his experience)
And mutual respect—domestic grease—
Is the sole basis for a lasting peace.
History, at least thirty-nine of its countless elements, began with Sumer, or so Samuel Noah Kramer would have us believe. The origins of history are being continuously reglossed, even as we are perpetually revising our view of our relationship with the past and our own place in the present—and what, in fact, history actually is. Despite the uncertainties in our knowledge of the past (and the present), and the subjectivity of our interpretations of either, there are constants, however much their particulars and primacy might be argued. There have always been, will always be, work and play. Suffering and healing. Firsts and lasts.
Gregory Feeley here offers a meditation on “the end of history,” both as fearfully anticipated and as complacently announced.
Giliad
GREGORY FEELEY
Trent’s pleasure in being
asked to βeta-test Ziggurat deeply annoyed Leslie, who watched without comment as he slid in the CD but left when summer-movie music began to vibrate from the speakers as cuneiform characters appeared on the screen and slowly turned into the company’s name. She was in the kitchen when he called her to come see something, and had nearly finished preparing lunch when he appeared at the door. “No, I’m not interested,” she answered, ignoring his crestfallen expression. “Go role-play as Sargon, but don’t tell me it’s history. And that anachronistic Greek letter is pretty dumb.”
“They’re just showing off their HTML,” he protested, hurt. “You say you hate not being able to underline in e-mail.” He took a sandwich, an act he made seem like a peace offering. “Was there really a king named Sargon?”
Leslie sighed. “Yes and he’s certain to appear in the game, since his name sounds like someone out of Star Trek.” Trent laughed. “You know what else they’ll put in?”
“Gilgamesh?” he guessed after a second. Trent hated being made to feel he was being tested.
“Beer,” she answered, handing him a bottle. “The Sumerians invented it.”
“Really?” His pleasure at some bauble of fact was unmediated, like a child’s. “And there were seven cities vying for supremacy?”
“In Sargon’s time? I don’t know.” Leslie thought. “Uruk, then Kish . . .”
“Nippur, Eridu, Ur, Lagash, and Umma.” Leslie looked skeptical, and he added, “I know, it depends on when.”
“These are independent city-states? Then this would be before Sargon, or sometime after.” She sighed. “I’ll look it up, okay? But I don’t want to deal with your game.”
When she entered the office, however, a color map of the Tigris-Euphrates valley was glowing on the monitor. Trent was nowhere to be seen. Leslie pulled down her Cambridge Ancient History, and as she turned back toward the desk a half dozen cities appeared within the lopsided gourd formed by the two rivers. She stepped closer and saw that the symbols marking the sites were ragged-sloped triangles, ziggurats. Kish was nearest the stem, with the rest farther south; but after a second a constellation of features began to appear: the word AKKAD materialized just beneath the bottleneck, while stylized inverted Vs, ominous as the peaks of Mordor in Tolkien’s map of Middle Earth, rose to the east and became The Zagros Mountains. ELAMITES, AMORITES, and GUTIANS threatened from the periphery. Leslie glanced at the speakers and noticed that the volume had been turned down.
Not wanting to sit with her back to the monitor as it cycled through these changes, she took her book into the bedroom. She could hear tapping from the living room, where the laptop was plugged in by the couch. She sat in the armchair—the squeak of sprawling across the bed would doubtless bring Trent—and browsed through the pages on Mesopotamia.