No moon shone through the clear desert night as the barbarian captain rose from his bed. In the darkness he donned heavy armor, toughened leather and gleaming bronze. Pausing for a moment in the moonlight to mutter a prayer to his gods for good fortune, the battle-scarred warrior marched toward the King’s pavilion, his men falling into lines behind him. As he strode forth, the barbarian caught darting shadows amidst the scattered tents. The King’s cousin knew of the captain’s plot, but by the time he could act, it would be too late.
Great and resplendent in the center of the camp stood the King’s tent, yet the canvas was torn and stained, and the ropes were frayed and narrow. At the entrance stood two men with bloody knives. The barbarian stepped over the bodies of the King’s guards as his men surrounded the tent. The King’s new guards lifted the flap open and their captain strode boldly inside.
Within were tables of cedar and chairs of oak. An empty satin bed stood off the left. Little silver remained and less gold. Dust clung to everything. Yet candlelight gleamed off one, clean item: the King’s sword.
Before a bearded idol knelt the King himself; tattered robes draped over a weathered frame. Once the King had been a mighty warrior: before he ascended the throne, he had defeated an enemy champion in single combat. Now his hands were gnarled and his beard was greyed. As the barbarian stood in the entryway, the King rose solemnly and turned. “Patron,” he said, “what brings you to my tent at this late hour?”
Patron responded, “Your Majesty, I have dreadful news to report: your cousin Bessus plots against you. My men have surrounded the pavilion and secured the camp. We are prepared to seize Bessus and his compatriots. Give us the word, and we will secure your throne.”
For a long moment the King and the barbarian regarded each other. “Well do I know,” the King murmured after a while, “the plots of my cousin, avaricious and cunning. He is much like that Alexander who now sits upon my throne. Tell me, Patron, why do you cling to my doomed cause when your countrymen prosper following his?”
Anger rising, Patron responded, “This Alexander claims to bring vindication to the Greeks, but we have heard the cries of the Theban women and the groans of the Spartan men. He says that he brings the torch of civilization to the barbaric peoples, yet with it he razed ancient Tyre and Persepolis. Our brothers felt his mercy when he stained the fields of Adrasteia with their blood. No profit will accrue to us at his hands.”
“Six years ago, before Alexander crossed into Asia, there were fifty thousand Greeks in your service, exiles from our homes, victims of faction and war. We gave you good service in Egypt, in Bactria, in Phrygia, in Caria, in Syria, and on the plains of Gaugamela. When we were successful you rewarded us, and when we failed you forgave us. Our leaders stood high in your councils, and you always heeded their advice except when your kinsmen led you astray.”
“One of your kin seeks your destruction. In our country it is the custom that a man aims always to help his friends and to harm his enemies. Only four thousand of us remain, but we have fought and bled beside you, Your Majesty, and we will not abandon you now.”
At the barbarian’s words the King marveled, and tears gathered in his eyes. “Patron,” he said, “my friend, there is no need to remind me of the services you and your men have given me. I remember the battle at the Issus, how you bade me stay and continue the fight. You told me how the Greeks revered those men—Tellus, Leonidas, Cleon—who preferred to die rather than desert their post. Every night in my dreams I revisit that day and wish in vain that I had taken your advice.”
“Yet what is done is done. My kingdom is destroyed, my throne is lost, and soon my life shall depart me at last. For God has granted today to Alexander, and with his rising I must fall. Yet Alexander’s empire will not survive him: I foresee that before his blood is cold, the jackals he has raised up will tear at his kingdom and bring his house to dust.”
“Your friendship, Patron, I treasure deeply, and I am moved by your devotion, but just as you cannot bear to leave a friend to so wretched a fate as awaits me, neither can I permit my friends to go down that same path. I cannot accept your offer; I ask instead, in the name of our friendship, that you look to yourself and to your men, and that you leave me to meet my end in peace. For did not your sage Socrates act in the same way when death was fast upon him?”
Patron had never before heard the King speak with such familiarity toward Greek philosophy. At a loss for words, he bowed deeply, turned, and left the tent. His men filed in behind him. Behind them the shadows grew darker and surrounded the King’s pavilion. Within the King knelt again before the idol and prayed.
Only when he had reached his own tent could the barbarian bear to look back. As he watched the King’s doom steal upon him, he said quietly, “Now we go our separate ways—you to die and I to live. Which of us will fare better is obscure to all, save to God alone.”
I don’t get it.
Good shit. Is true leadership knowing when you’re beaten? Sacrifice? Fighting for principle? So many viable lines of philosophy tangentially occur to me. Brain… Overclock…